Drive By Page 7

  When he’d left, the super said to Knight, ‘That was sudden.’

  ‘He’s a busy man, is Brian.’

  ‘Worked with him before?’

  ‘Long ago. He was always in a hurry.’

  ‘I heard he could have been commander now if he wanted it. Prefers to stay hands-on.’

  ‘Pretty much runs the place anyway. Best of both worlds if you don’t mind about the money. Brian never has.’

  The super looked away.

  Mate, after that interview when the jacks told Salim and Rafiq about the phone taps, I was waiting for them outside the Roselands cop shop. It was evening and my work had finished. They is coming out and Rafiq is wiping his shirt with these tissues and Salim is shaking his head like, You is giving me a hard time again. They join me and walk down the street to Salim’s Beemer and Salim looks at this phone he always holds in his hand and says, Yallah, I got to be in the city—this job I tell you what it is killing me. He opens the door and shakes my hand, looks at Rafi and holds his hand back, says to me, People who lie to their lawyers end up in jail. Rafi says, What are you talking about? This is a plot to put me in jail because I am Imad and Farid’s brother. John that is a fake phone call with actors and all. I swear to you.

  By this time I am smelling the sick on Rafiq and I start to ask what this is all about but Salim looks at Rafiq hard, like it is in some movie, and says, Tonight, right? Then to me, You get your idiot brother to see that if he’s lied to everyone maybe his own mother will be going to jail for perjury. Rafi says, The jacks, bro, who you going to believe, them or me? Salim says loudly, You do not want to listen to me that is fine you can just join Imad in the supermax. Rafi is angry and going on about how he is being set up, I see his arms go out and the tissues fly off onto the windscreen of a passing van that swerves and almost hits another car. There is shouting and yelling and the guy in the van stops and gets out but Rafi is crying and Salim is shouting at him and the guy stands there looking at us then gets back in his van. I am still not comprehending the situation and Salim yells at me, Talk to your brother and I will see you tonight when I have calmed down. Then he roars off and I am looking at Rafi standing there being all emotional. Sometimes with all the yelling and stuff you just want to have a normal conversation.

  So we have a coffee and at first I am worried about Rafi because of the state of his emotions, but after he tells me how the jacks have made this fake phone tap he stops yelling and orders a pastry. After a while he stops being angry and blows his nose and even the smell goes away or p’raps I just get used to it.

  We walk back to where Rafi has parked his car which is a classic machine, a Porsche, and I say, Salim will sort this out tonight, and Rafi nods his head and says, He is such a smart guy, look at that BMW he has because he is working so hard being in two places at once all the time. It is an inspiration to me when I am an accountant, that is a pretty good car even if not as stylish as the Carrera. I think what is this word stylish and put it in my mind to talk about to him. With all the trouble Rafi is causing the family he was doing new stuff too and having new experiences and I knew it was important for us to learn about this. But that was for later.

  We got to the Carrera and I ran my eyes over it like I always do, like the curves on a girl’s back when she is lying on the bed next to you, and think how lucky Rafi was to have a machine like this at the age of twenty, even if the car was made thirty years ago. It is a long story why Farid bought him this beautiful car when I only have a RAV4 and I do not want to think about it right now. I said to him, So what do you say about this fucking tape recording? It is fake, he said, they is getting someone to pretend to be me with all that crackling and stuff. Why do you keep asking me about this?

  Do you swear to me? I say and he starts to cry and says, I swear to you, bro, on my life. Then he opens the door of his car.

  I am about to say okay but he says, You do not believe me, do you? You would rather believe the jacks than your own flesh and blood. I tell him of course I believe him but he is all emotional and says to me, You do not believe your own flesh again and again and we are having an argument like he had with Salim and I wonder what the fuck is this about? We is always having arguments but this situation is different; like with engine diagnostics, we need to get the facts clear. There are times for arguing and times for facts. Rafi, I say, what the fuck—but he has turned on the engine and is gunning it, then he roars off. Girls on the street look at the car as it goes by, and I calm down and feel proud at how we Habibs do own this city. I love my brother so much and the way he is going to the uni and looking like a film star. I am worried about the facts—p’raps that is why I am a mechanic. But I do love my family.

  Mabey: ‘What happened on the first day of your investigation, after the meeting with the superintendent and Inspector Harris?’

  Knight: ‘I visited the deceased’s apartment.’

  Mabey: ‘That’s in Reilly Street, Surry Hills?’

  Knight: ‘Yes. Just around the corner from the AIDS clinic.’

  Mabey: ‘What happened next?’

  Knight: ‘It’s a big complex with underground parking. We didn’t have the keys. Nor did we yet have a warrant, so I introduced myself to the concierge, a man named James Lee. I asked if he would let us into the apartment. He said no, so I asked if he would take us up so we could confirm it was secure and place a person on the door until a warrant was obtained. Mr Lee rang his employer and gained permission to do that. We all went up to level five, apartment 507. The—’

  Mabey: ‘What did you find?’

  Bec could see she wanted to slow Knight down, break up the flow of information into discrete chunks. Also, she needed to maintain her presence in the minds of the jury, her position of authority. They had to trust her.

  Knight: ‘We found the door open about six inches and the area around the lock and the lintel damaged, as though—’

  Mabey: ‘For our younger jurors, that’s about fifteen centimetres?’

  Knight: ‘Yes.’

  Mabey: ‘The lintel is the doorframe?’

  Knight: ‘Correct. It appeared a crime had been committed, forced entry. Mr Lee agreed for us to inspect the apartment to make sure it was clear.’

  Mabey: ‘When you say “we”—’

  Knight: ‘Detectives Burchell, Easterley, Ralston and myself. All we did at that stage was see if anyone was in the premises.’

  Mabey: ‘Was there?’

  Knight: ‘No.’

  Mabey: ‘Did you notice anything of particular interest?’

  Knight: ‘In the larger of the two bedrooms the built-in wardrobe was open and inside there was a patch of bare concrete on the ground and a lot of concrete dust and pieces on the carpet around it. I wondered if someone had removed a small safe.’

  Mabey: ‘What happened next?’

  Knight: ‘I told Detective Ralston to wait outside the apartment until the warrant was obtained and the search team arrived. The other detectives and myself went back downstairs with Mr Lee, to look at the CCTV footage of the entrance foyer.’

  Mabey: ‘I understand Mr Lee has returned to China.’

  Knight: ‘That’s right.’

  Mabey: ‘Did you ask him about people shown on the CCTV?’

  Knight: ‘Yes, there were two lots of visitors he hadn’t recognised. The first was a young man at 11.03 pm the previous night, came in wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses. He had a key to the front door of the complex, you can’t just walk in there. He took the lift up to level three and the concierge didn’t see him again. He recalled a car leaving the underground garage about five minutes later.’

  Mabey: ‘How did he know that?’

  Knight: ‘There’s a security camera covering the driveway, and a monitor on the concierge’s desk.’

  Mabey: ‘Is it possible the young man who’d just come in was the driver?’

  Knight: ‘Yes. Mr Lee said there had been no lift movement in the interim. But the car park is accessible by int
ernal stairs.’

  Mabey: ‘Did you interview the occupants of level three as well?’

  Knight: ‘Yes. No one resembled or recognised the man in the photo.’

  Mabey: ‘And the second visit?’

  Knight: ‘A woman and a man, also wearing sunglasses and baseball caps, came in at 8.15 am the day after the shooting. The man was pushing a trolley with a biggish cardboard box on it. The woman said they had a delivery for Mr Teller on level five. Showed an invoice for the purchase of a computer, said they had to pick up the old one too. The concierge let them up.’

  Mabey: ‘Did he try to call Mr Teller?’

  Knight: ‘No. I gather security at the complex was not exactly five star. He let them up because of the paperwork. They came down about twenty minutes later with the box, off they went.’

  Mabey: ‘With the safe inside?’

  Ferguson: ‘Objection, Your Honour! The witness cannot be asked to speculate—’

  Judge: ‘I disallow the question.’

  The Surry, morning after Jason Teller’s death

  The flat was big, nice view of Central Station’s clock tower to the west. The concierge had followed them in and was sticking close to Knight. He seemed nervous. Just before leaving his post downstairs he’d produced a roll of tape and a marker pen.

  ‘Teller had a flatmate?’ said Knight as they surveyed the second bedroom.

  ‘I don’t know. I only do two days a week here.’

  ‘You a student, are you mate?’

  ‘Brand management.’

  ‘That’s good. Very interesting subject.’

  There was a big home-entertainment system in the lounge/ dining area, not much sign anything ever happened in the kitchen. Double beds in the two bedrooms, with clothes, packing boxes, sports equipment and bags on the floor. Bec doubted any woman lived in the apartment.

  The bigger bedroom had the door of its built-in wardrobe open, the floor space where a safe had been removed clearly visible. An angle grinder lay on the carpet nearby.

  ‘Like a teenager’s room,’ Bec said, trying to find a clear space on the floor to stand in. Neatness was important to her.

  Burchell said, ‘A rich teenager.’

  The second room was worse, smell of body fluids and brown alcohol, dumbbells on the floor, unopened mail face down. Knight leaned over for one of the envelopes and Lee grabbed his arm.

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  Knight straightened slowly, said, ‘Brand management must be exciting?’

  ‘You have to go now, or lose my job.’

  Knight tried staring but it did no good, the kid didn’t care. He walked out, followed by Lee. Bec stayed put and the kid paused in the doorway, uncertain. When he disappeared, Bec picked up a few envelopes and slipped them in her jacket.

  Back in the corridor, Lee pulled the door closed and sealed it with strips of tape, his actions clumsy but determined. Bec walked down the hall, had a look at the envelopes. She returned to the concierge, who was signing the tape with his pen.

  ‘You can never be too careful,’ Knight said approvingly, patting the kid on the back.

  Took a few steps towards Bec, who said, ‘Steve Beric.’

  She spelled the surname.

  ‘You guard the door until reinforcements arrive.’

  Alone, Bec knocked on all the other doors, no answers. Made some calls, chasing up jobs back at Liverpool. Waited. It was an expensive place, nice carpet, freshly painted walls. Light fittings in some classy old style she’d seen in movies. A place for young executives, professionals and dealers, probably a drug bazaar at nights.

  There was a copy of the Daily Telegraph outside one of the flats. It was still there after half an hour and she picked it up, did the crossword without writing the words in. Spent another fifteen minutes reading every item in which she had the faintest interest. The second-last premier of New South Wales, who’d upped the jail population by twenty per cent, had just declared the war on drugs unwinnable. Come to this realisation since leaving politics.

  At twelve Bec called the coach of her work netball team to say she might not make training that night. The woman groaned when she heard Bec had been attached to a homicide task force.

  ‘Who’s the OIC?’

  ‘Russell Knight.’

  ‘He’s good. You’ll learn a lot.’

  ‘I’m doing e@gle.i.’

  Except she wasn’t right now. She was here, which was even more boring.

  Knight rang to say crime scene had been delayed, there’d been a death by shaking last night. The search team would be there in twenty, he couldn’t come himself, wanted Bec to observe.

  ‘I’m doing bodies.’ Resources, not corpses. ‘Got two more of our blokes from the squad, Gorton and O’Brien, two Ds from here’—he was back at Roselands—‘and a few plainclothes.’

  ‘We’re still working from there?’

  The investigation now had two geographic focuses, the locations where Teller had lived and where he’d been killed, separated by fifteen kilometres of clogged roads.

  ‘For the while. Got a room at the SPC too. See where it goes.’

  The Sydney Police Centre was an enormous concrete block, just down the road. ‘Gorton’s been looking at your mate Beric, used to bodyguard for Sam Deeb, only moved in with Teller two months ago.’

  ‘To keep an eye on him?’

  ‘No sign?’

  ‘Not a soul. I’ve been thinking, these flats—’

  ‘Stay in touch.’

  She stared at her phone for a while. Knight seemed different this time round. Less happy.

  She hoped it wasn’t her use of language, the words she loved but never had under complete control. This came from Miss Peach in year eight, who had spoken semi-formally, been an elocution teacher in Manchester in England. No one knew why she’d ended up in Dubbo, or why she was still a Miss, but Bec had seen the defiance there in her style and way of speaking, seen an opportunity.

  Miss Peach spoke a bit like Bec’s grandmother’s bloke, a white man named Harvey who’d passed just before they’d moved to Dubbo. He was an old timber worker, unemployed after his forest was turned into a national park. Unable to take up any of the exciting employment opportunities in the new eco-tourism industry, he’d moved in with Chevon’s mother and drank himself to death.

  Bec had greatly appreciated Harvey’s conversation, the extended vocabulary and grammatical proportions of his sentences. It reflected a more formal frame of mind, not that Harvey was otherwise inclined to formality. Every day he wore shorts and thongs, which he called Queensland work boots. He’d grown up near the coast, fought in a war, crossed the mountains for unknown reasons. The fact you could carry a way of speaking and thinking with you, preserve it so it preserved you, had not struck Bec at the time. Only years later did Miss Peach awaken her to the possibilities Harvey offered, of a method of survival.

  Finally Burchell turned up with the search team, nodded to Bec and got the operation underway. Her jaw was very long, Bec thought as she followed them inside the hot flat and turned on the AC. A uniformed inspector from Surry Hills observed the search, which proceeded room by room, a video camera trained on the officers as they worked. No chance to drop a kilo of heroin down the front of your trousers.

  They began in the kitchen, where one of the uniforms picked up a brown envelope on the table and found it stuffed with cash, about five K. Not a bad start.

  ‘Keep an eye out,’ Burchell said to Bec, leaving the room to call Knight.

  She was gone a while and Bec prepared questions to ask her. Knew if she wanted to learn stuff she’d have to push, new girl on the block.

  They moved through the lounge area and into the smaller bedroom. Found a big diamond ring in the lining of a leather jacket in the wardrobe, price tag still attached. There was a small quantity of white powder in a baggie under the bed, dusty like it had been dropped and forgotten.

  ‘Probably coke,’ said the uniformed inspector.

&nbs
p; Probably. There was mail addressed to Jason Teller, mainly phone and electricity accounts, mail for Steve Beric, some empty envelopes, nothing interesting. The crime scene people would come next, look for prints, DNA, drug traces. Try to break in to the password-protected computer in the other room.

  Burchell reappeared and said, ‘Got to go. You okay?’

  ‘Something’s come up?’

  ‘Phones?’

  ‘No. One billing record—’

  ‘Landline?’

  ‘No.’

  Burchell turned and went. Tough Homicide dick, too important for a mere general duties detective. Bec didn’t feel too bad, though. Wherever Burchell went, she’d still have that jaw.

  They worked through the second bedroom, Bec bored and helping. Unzipped a sports bag, blinked: full of banknotes, to the brim. The others gathered round to look.

  It was a pretty big sports bag.

  Mate, when they charged Rafi two days after the second interview I was really shocked. How they thought they’d get away with it in court we didn’t know. Then Salim tells us about this election coming up and the government wanting to look tough on crime, like they charged Rafi but after the election they’ll probably drop the case. Which is just the most disgusting behaviour in our elected representatives he had ever heard of and he was a lawyer and all.

  I’ve got to tell you, though, Salim was really good, stayed at the police station all of the afternoon, went up to the court with Rafi and told the magistrate it was a weak case and Rafi was an outstanding member of the community, with no criminal record, a university student who had passed all his exams and was a low flight risk. The family was there but I wasn’t. When I’d told Chris Taylor I had to go, he said, You have been away from work on family leave once a fortnight for the last six months and the next time you are going to have to meet Mr Wilson to review your leave history. I tell you I hated Chris Taylor at that moment but Mr Wilson is his boss and I had no idea I’d taken so much time off, like I’d never sat down with a calculator and worked out the figures. I just thought when Chris Taylor told me this, One day you will need to be with your family during a time of crisis and see what it feels like. But all I said was, Thanks a lot, and banged the door when I went back out to the floor. It upset me seriously that he could be so petty about a few hours when my little brother was facing the ruin of his life.