BECKER Page 3

  ‘Barry?’ he said.

  ‘Barnes,’ the cop said. Only one stripe on his shoulders.

  ‘Barry Barnes?’

  ‘Yeah, remember me, don’t you?’

  Becker was confused. He had a cousin who was a cop and he’d appeared out of nowhere. Grinning and shaking his hand like a man who’d been looking for him all his life. And now had found him.

  ‘He’s your cousin,’ Robyn said.

  ‘Yeah, I remember now,’ he said. ‘Barry Barnes.’

  ‘Sorry to bust on you like this, mate, but I was passin’ and thought I’d say hullo. Hope I’m not interrupting anythin’. You know what it’s like, a couple of cousins, who haven’t seen each other for—how long is it? Fifteen years? Big surprise, eh?’

  ‘Sixteen now,’ Becker said.

  ‘Sixteen, is it? How’s Aunt Iris?’

  ‘She’s at Kirralee now.’

  Barnes stiffened as if shocked, which was only an act. Everyone in the district knew about Iris Becker, who’d gone mad. Not suddenly, but quickly enough over a few years. It was sad to see. At first, no-one had thought it all that serious. But it was, insidiously. The CO at Kapooka barracks had come to the house and told her himself, hat in his hand, respectfully that her husband was dead. The chaplain was with him, looking sorrowful, as if he did not like doing the job, but he’d promised God he would, so he had to do it. The CO’s driver was standing at ease by the car. They all looked ready to rush forward to catch her if she fainted. With the shock. But she did not. She’d been expecting this, ever since he’d left. Even before that, when he’d come home one evening and said he’d volunteered again. Volunteered? she’d said, as if that was the worst thing a man could do to his wife. Harry Becker had stood behind his mother, listening. He’d been nine then. A good boy, always ready to do things for her. Running to the shop, chopping kindling, drying up after dinner.

  Not like his dreadful cousin, Barry Barnes, always throwing stones and getting into trouble with the police. A real tearaway, he was. And what happened to him? You wouldn’t believe it. Grew up and stopped being stupid long enough to get into the police. Must have been thirty when he got in. They must have been desperate. But that was later, well after young Harry himself had joined. And gone to Sydney and then to Canberra. Now he was back, loaded with money, everyone said. And married a lovely girl, Robyn Sheldrake, who used to work for a dentist in Baylis Street. Widow of that bloke, Arnold Sheldrake, who piled his truck up against a big gum on the road near Tarcutta. Not a skid mark to be seen anywhere, according to the investigating officers. Must have gone to sleep at the wheel.

  ‘Yeah, I heard,’ Barnes said. He was two or three inches short of Becker, who was an inch under six feet. Nuggetty sort of build, good strong arms, quick eyes and a knowing expression. Like those of a pet dog, your own pet dog, looking at you and not at you, eyes never still, always scanning the scene, trying to work out what you are going to do next, not missing one detail.

  ‘Was passing and thought I’d drop in and see if you were at home, say hullo. That sort of thing. As a matter of fact, I should be back at the station now. Had to do a run to Griffith, nothin’ important. But bein’ on duty, you know—’

  He turned this way and that, still holding his cap, twisting in his boots, big boots, hard boots, ideal for kicking heads, as they used to say at the Cross, when Becker had worked there. A rough place, King’s Cross. Blokes shagging sheilas up against walls down dingy lanes and creeps from every part of the world trying to look tough and important and malicious but nervous at the same time. Because they had a few dollars to spend before someone killed them for it.

  ‘I’ll walk out with you,’ Becker said.

  ‘Ah, yeah, thanks, mate.’

  They followed Barnes through the house, Robyn following. ‘Nice place, you’ve got here,’ he said. At the front door he turned, a hand out again. ‘Nice to see you after all these years, Harry.’

  They shook again. Just a gesture, one cop to another. Becker was uneasy. Something, he felt, had happened. He was being checked out.

  ‘Goodbye, Robyn.’

  ‘Oh, it’s wonderful to see you, Barry. I’ve never met any of Harry’s relatives, except his mother who is, you know—’ She stumbled. ‘You must come and see us again, when you’ve got more time. Are you married?’

  ‘Married?’ Barnes reacted as if he’d been accused of something. ‘Yeah, yeah, Maria is her name—’ He was going to say something more, but baulked.

  ‘I’ll walk up with you,’ Becker said.

  Outside the gate stood a big, red police car, a highway-patrol vehicle, a Holden V8. With the blue and white check along the side. Very high speed, very aggressive.

  The visitor paused. Looked back quickly, perhaps to be sure Robyn was at a safe distance.

  ‘Mate, you wouldn’t know anything about a mountain bike, would you? A big, red Honda?’

  Becker was stunned. He knew he’d be asked one day. Had always thought he’d have some sort of answer ready. But he didn’t.

  ‘A Honda?’

  ‘Yeah, a big, red one.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘The reason I ask is we picked up some kids recently, out at Wybilonga. You been there? A deadbeat dump now. Did a stint there once, bugger of a job. One-cop town. Y’never get any sleep, all the bloody punch-ups. Shops all closed except one and the pub could be delicensed any minute. Full of Abos and their kids, full black and half-castes, you know the sort of place. Well, we caught some black kids ridin’ a big, red Honda bike. The kind you see kids ridin’ in championships on TV, kickin’ up dust like mad. Anyway, they couldn’t explain the bike.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Nothing. You know what they’re like. So, we worked on ’em. Eventually it came out, especially when one of the blackfellers came out and told ’em to ’fess up. Old Arthur Goorawoy it was. Used to know him, not a bad sort of bloke for a boong. Anyway, they said they found it, along this road. They’d been hitchin’ back home from Wagga. Reckoned it was outside a place with white rails and a new green roof and a smart car parked under a big pepper tree. They looked around and couldn’t see anyone. Reckoned someone must’ve chucked it away. They always say that, so fuckin’ innocent. Anyway, they took it, just for a joyride, they said.’

  ‘And never brought it back?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Barnes was watching him; his mouth and his small blue eyes screwed up in a gesture of confident advantage. ‘It sounds like this place,’ he said at last.

  Becker had had time to think. It was better not to deny it. If there was one thing a citizen had to know, it was this: Never lie to a cop. They always know when you are lying. If they know you are, you’ll never get rid of them.

  ‘Yeah, I remember now. Must have been a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Any idea who left it?’

  ‘No idea. I thought it must’ve been left by someone who’d run out of gas. And walked back to the gas station at the turn-off.’

  ‘That looks like three kilos. Funny they didn’t knock on your door and ask for some.’

  ‘Maybe they did, but no-one home. Or, we were all out back, maybe at the creek.’

  Becker shrugged, hoping he was getting away with it. ‘I saw it when I came up to the gate to check for mail. Later, I came up again to see if it was still there, but it’d gone.’

  ‘No idea who owned it?’ Barnes asked.

  ‘No idea at all.’

  Barnes was smiling. ‘Belonged to some kid from Melbourne. Disappeared late in September.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Wanted for murder.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘Yeah, a job he did in Melbourne. Quite brazen, they reckon.’

  Becker froze. ‘Melbourne?’

  ‘Yeah, walked into some Dago joint one day, where all
the smart Dagos hang out, and popped a bloke. They reckon the Mafia’s top echelon has lunch there every Friday.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Straight through the back of the head, while eatin’ with some mates from Griffith.’

  ‘Griffith?’

  ‘A lot of money in Griffith, eh?’

  ‘You mean drugs?’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, the bloke got away on a big, red, Honda mountain bike.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘And it turns out that this is the bike.’

  ‘Someone got the number?’

  ‘No, they had to check on everyone who had such a bike. Everyone in Victoria. Got themselves a few likely candidates, then had to narrow that down with the rough description they had. Some thin kid with a helmet. Not much to go on was it? Except he said, Hi ho, Silver?’

  ‘Anyone can say, Hi ho, Silver.’

  ‘That’s right mate. So, this might not be the bike at all, might it? But it’s funny, ain’t it?’

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘That a guy, who does hits on people, rides a such a bike and it turns up here.’

  ‘I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Ballistics have worked it out that the guy, who did the job in Melbourne, used a gun also used to kill a female cop and a rich dame in Canberra.’

  Becker froze. Truth was getting closer and closer.

  ‘And the lady in Canberra was a lady, who you’d been seein’ a bit of, so they say. And that lady had a lot of money. And now she’s dead. You see the connection?’

  ‘The connection?’ He could hardly breathe. He lived in a world of fear. It was all about to come undone, what he’d been trying to hide from Robyn. Hide from the world.

  ‘Yeah, mate. The lady is dead. And the bike owned by the possible killer turns up here.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I ain’t sayin’ anything, mate. I’m just tellin’ y’ what it looks like.’

  ‘Are you trying to say I hired a man to kill a woman? To get her money?’

  ‘What?’ Barnes jumped back, mock shock all over his face. ‘Jesus, mate, spare the thought. I ain’t tryin’ to do anything’. Just pointin’ out how it could look. For your sake, right?’

  Becker said nothing. His heart had stopped, although strangely, he was still alive.

  Barnes patted him on a shoulder.

  ‘Anyway, for your information,’ he said, ‘the bloke’s name was Medich, Branko Medich.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The owner of that bike. Makes y’wonder, don’t it?’

  ‘Wonder?’

  ‘What happened to Medich.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  Barnes smiled. Or did not smile, but grimaced. He had that kind of mouth. Every time he tried to smile it went up on one side. Like a crooked penny.

  ‘Don’t worry, Harry. We ain’t gonna search your property, dig up the place.’ He went to his car. ‘If you hear anything, give us a ring, will y’?’ He got in, looking back. ‘Nice place you’ve got here. Must be worth a bit, eh?’

  Then, with a wave and a click of his tongue, he drove off. A sort of smile too. It was the kind of smile you’d expect from a man who thought he was onto a good thing.

  Chapter 4

  He didn’t know what to do. No-one would believe it was a coincidence. He should never have gone along with Chook. She’d saved Robyn and the kids from the horror—the place crawling with cops, the murder of Alfredo and the killing of that little defective. But it was too risky. Something would go wrong. It always does.

  Late that day his mobile phone went off.

  ‘Becker,’ he said.

  ‘How are you, Harry?’

  He had to think. ‘Chook?’ Then realised his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, I meant Stacey.’

  ‘The same,’ she said.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home, in the Currawong flats, lying on the bed, reading a John le Carré and enjoying a Jack Daniels.’

  He knew what she meant. The Currawong flats were a big, bald and unprepossessing block put up in the sixties by the Federal government to accommodate public servants being brought to Canberra from Melbourne. But later, as housing improved, the transferees had moved out and anyone from anywhere had a place there now. Even a cop on a motorbike. It was where Chook and Polly Politis had lived in a one-bedroom flat with a double bed, from which they could look over the grand car parks of the CBD. They’d lived there in some sort of harmony, forever quarrelling but always friends. And lovers, Becker had thought. He was not sure. Chook had said at the funeral in Canberra: ‘I’m not a dyke, but Polly is the only person I’ve ever truly loved.’ Then she shook his hand and walked off.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he said.

  ‘I have something for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Best not to say.’

  He understood. Anyone could be listening. There had been a few loose ends. No doubt the Federal police were interested in him now, possibly in her too. Why had the red Honda been found parked outside his place? What had happened to the kid? He’d never returned to some cheap rat-hole in Melbourne, where he’d dreamed of making a killing out of killing. Being someone, being fast and smart and ruthless and making a show of it. What had he done in Melbourne? It took nerve to walk into a place in full view of diners and plug a bloke. No-one except Becker and Chook knew what had happened to the kid. And he did not know what she’d done. How had she disposed of his body? Both bodies, in fact. He did not know. And did not really want to know. The less he knew, the better.

  ‘You gonna be in town tomorrow?’

  ‘In Wagga? You want to see me?’

  ‘As I said, I have something for you.’

  He had a fair idea what it would be—his own sidearm, an old Smith and Wesson .38 revolver.

  ‘You mean my piece?’

  ‘It’s no longer needed as evidence,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘It’s registered to you.’

  ‘I don’t want to see it again.’

  ‘I think you should, for safety’s sake.’

  He baulked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow.’

  Next day was Saturday. When he told Robyn, he said he was going to town to see Tommy Thomkins about boring for water. Tommy was an old stock and station agent in Fitzmaurice Street. Becker had once worked for Tommy long ago, before he joined the police. The old windmill had gone but, even if it hadn’t, it would be inadequate. He had cattle and cattle needed water. No cows or heifers, only weaners. His plan was to buy in weaners, fatten them up, then a year or two later send them to market. Hope to get double what he paid for them. That was his plan, but he wasn’t allowing for farm costs. He didn’t care much about costs, as long as the farm paid for itself. He wasn’t worried about money. After all, Evelyn had had a lot of shares in the Royal Bank and he’d inherited half of them. And the bank was paying better than ten percent. But cattle drank a lot of water—and the creek would be unreliable in time of drought. The squeaky old Southern Cross windmill had gone years ago and the old bore would be too small to supply cattle in a drought. He’d need a new bore and an electric pump, a powerful pump. And new troughs and new yards. He was determined to make the Nil Desperandum drought-proof.

  Robyn said she and the kids would come with him. He couldn’t think of a way to stop her without making her suspicious. So they went in to Wagga. He was still driving the BMW he’d inherited from Evelyn Crowley. He would never give it up.

  Each time he sat behind the wheel, he was with her again, Evelyn. And they were setting off, her driving, head up, smiling, as happy as a kid going on a picnic. They were going to escape to Perth, but it had never happened. If he had his way, he’d be buried in it, so he could in some twist
ed way be with her still. He had bought a four-wheel-drive Nissan, which they used for ordinary farm work and in which Robyn took the kids to the local school at the turnoff to Lockhart. There was a local school bus, but still she liked to take them. See that they got there safely. Also, she liked to be at the school, doing things. Like helping in the tuck shop and the library. Or merely chatting to other women.

  Next year, the girl, Wendy, would be twelve and would be going to Wagga Wagga High School. She was a good kid, who rarely said anything, but smiled shyly or laughed with her mouth shut. When she did speak, it was mostly to her mother secretly, a hand to her mouth—smiling at Becker as if he were an unfathomable mystery. Which of course, he was. He’d told Robyn he’d been retired from the Sydney police force after being shot in the line of duty and had received a big payout. Which was not true. He’d been shot before he could tell someone high up what was happening at Kings Cross—the corruption, the payoffs, the killings. But Wendy understood her mother was mad about him and that they were somehow miraculously lucky.

  The boy was nine and a bit of a rascal, always making a lot of noise, but you got used to him. He told all his mates at school Becker was a millionaire—which was true. But Becker never said so. In fact, he said nothing about money. He was nervous about his good fortune, which might at any moment go flying out the window. That was one reason why he was worried about seeing Anastacia Babchuk again. She was a Federal cop, and she’d killed a man and not reported it. And she didn’t seem to be concerned about it.

  He dropped them at Grace Brothers to do some shopping, but did not go to see Tommy Thomkins in Fitzmaurice Street. Instead, he walked up Baylis Street to the Hovell, which was not a hovel but a hotel named after William Hovell, who, with Hamilton Hume in 1827, pioneered a route from Yass, north of the-present day Canberra, all the way down to Port Phillip. In the old days when wool was king the Hovell had been the only place to stay in Wagga. By the 1970s it had become pretty well musty and beery and rundown. But not long ago someone had got their hands on it and tarted it up. Now, in 1995, it looked like a fairly high-class boozer. Even so, the Hovell was a violent pub, especially on Friday and Saturday nights. Which was half its attraction.