The beacon, p.22
The Beacon, page 22
Jack heard loud music approaching and two shirtless backpackers shimmied past, one carrying a speaker blaring from his shoulder. The other called out to Jack, ‘Bellissimo,’ then blew him a kiss.
‘I know this is hard to believe,’ said Zoe, ‘but you’re done.’
Jack stood up and the queue waiting for lattes at Eddie’s burst into applause.
She refused to take payment. ‘It’s the least I can do, I’ve messed you around so much. Besides, the cash drawer is full of water.’
Jack lowered his voice and turned his back on the crowd. ‘Zoe, there’s one more thing we’d like your help with. We’re trying to identify a black van behaving suspiciously around the time Patrick disappeared. We don’t have much of a description, just that it was like a delivery van, with no windows in the back. One of your clients might have seen something.’
Zoe nodded. ‘Leave it with me.’
They hugged.
Jack held her and said, ‘Big day tomorrow.’
She squeezed him tighter and buried her head in his shoulder.
He asked, ‘Would you like me to collect you and Caitlin? We can go together.’
They separated, and she nodded her head. ‘That’s very kind.’
As she carried the stool back to the door, the plumbers emerged from the salon, soaking wet, but victorious. The deluge had stopped.
Chapter Fifty
The restaurant was full, but Begley and his wife were seated at the best table, one of the perks of booking under the name of Inspector. Their view extended across the glittering bay where kayakers and stand-up paddleboarders were revelling in the calm conditions.
Begley was happy. The grilled king prawns had been swimming in garlic, and the dry-aged rib-eye had stretched from one side of his plate to the other. And now the waiter stood before them, tempting him with the dessert menu. Veronica wouldn’t rebuke him today, no matter how much he overate, so he opted for the salted caramel chocolate fondant.
The maître d’ appeared, smiling. ‘Would you like a dessert wine, or coffee? We also have a vintage port that would be the perfect accompaniment.’
They both agreed on the port.
Begley took his wife’s hand in his and they smiled at each other. He had been so incredibly lucky to marry this woman. It was only because of her love and support that he was still in the police force – and able to deal with the stress of the job most of the time. She’d followed him without complaint every time he’d been transferred from one shitty police station to another. He was pleased that, finally, here in Byron Bay, they had a posting that made her happy.
A shadow fell across the table. When Begley looked up, his happy mood vanished. Assistant Commissioner Terry Mitchell stood before them in full uniform. Every eye in the restaurant was trained on them.
‘Out of uniform, Inspector Begley?’ asked the assistant commissioner.
Begley saw the consternation in his wife’s face, and he fought to suppress his anger at the intrusion. ‘I’m off duty, sir. It’s our anniversary.’
‘Well, congratulations. Do you mind if I join you?’ Before waiting for an answer, he called for the maître d’ to bring him a chair.
Before separating hands, Begley squeezed his wife’s reassuringly and she squeezed back. Begley said, ‘Thirty-nine years today.’ Having heard rumours the assistant commissioner’s wife had recently left him, Begley asked, ‘How long have you been married, sir?’
The assistant commissioner was saved from replying by the arrival of his chair, the chocolate fondant, and the glasses of port.
‘I might have a port myself,’ the assistant commissioner said to the waiter, ‘and a spoon.’
Begley felt his anger mounting. The knuckles of his clenched fists were white, so he hid them under the table.
‘Anderson told me you were here,’ said the assistant commissioner. ‘You were overheard, Inspector, talking to the victim’s daughter about details of the case. How do you know she is not a suspect?’
‘His daughter? Sir, there’s no way—’
‘Disclosing evidence to a suspect is misconduct. Serious misconduct.’
This was ludicrous. Begley tried to remember the key points from his anger management sessions, but his mind went blank. ‘I really don’t think—’
‘Stop,’ interrupted the assistant commissioner loudly, before leaning forward and speaking with quieter menace. ‘I don’t want you to think. I want you to keep clear of the investigation, and Harris Media in particular.’ The assistant commissioner picked up his spoon, carved off half of Begley’s chocolate fondant and placed it in his mouth.
Begley took slow deliberate breaths. His wife stared at her hands.
‘The victim was a journalist, a Harris journalist. Why would the investigation—’
The assistant commissioner’s spoon stopped mid-flight towards the remaining fondant. ‘Really?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Because Harris is a major donor to the minister’s election fund. And the minister tells us what to do.’ The spoon continued its trajectory and the remaining fondant disappeared.
Begley was breathing faster now. ‘I assume any such direction would be unofficial, sir.’
The assistant commissioner swallowed, wiped his face with Begley’s napkin and turned to Veronica. ‘Mrs Begley.’
Her eyes were wide with trepidation as she slowly looked up. ‘Hmmm?’
‘How do you feel about getting out of this backwater? Perhaps a transfer to Sydney? Somewhere like, say, Blacktown.’ The assistant commissioner reached out a hand and placed it on her shoulder. ‘It’s very multicultural, with lots of good restaurants for your next anniversary. Or, better still, Broken Hill. Yes, that would be perfect.’
Begley saw the tears forming in his wife’s eyes. He was breathing way too fast, and feeling dizzy. Stars danced across his vision. His fingernails were digging into his palms. He knew he could deck the fat fucker with one punch. He forced his voice to be steady as it fought its way out through his clenched teeth. ‘I’ll keep away from the investigation. And Harris.’
The assistant commissioner removed his hand from Veronica Begley’s shoulder, then drained his glass of port. He smiled at Begley, stood up and placed his hat on his head. ‘Happy anniversary. You make such a lovely couple.’ He turned and was gone.
Begley took a huge breath and let out a long sigh. He reached for his wife’s hand. ‘Don’t worry about him. Shit like that always floats to the top.’
She nodded.
He said, ‘I love you.’
She smiled at him, like she’d done for over forty years, that beautiful smile, and said, ‘I love you too.’
The maître d’ appeared and cheerily wished them a happy anniversary before depositing the bill. Begley was shocked. The port was thirty-nine dollars. Each! He felt his anger returning. He hated being taken advantage of. Christ on a bloody bike, he thought, you can buy a whole bottle of port, a nice one, for twenty bucks.
As he paid, Begley took pains to get the full name of the smiling maître d’.
‘How was everything today?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Begley, proud his anger management training had finally surfaced. Later, back at the station, he would look up the maître d’ in the database and when he pulled the thieving scoundrel’s car over, the fine would make this bill look like small change.
He smiled at his wife, took her hand, and they strolled out.
Chapter Fifty-one
That same afternoon, Jack started the car and drove out of the carpark. As soon as he’d driven beyond sight of the police station, he picked up his phone and made a call, keeping a wary eye out for rogue potholes as he dialled.
‘Northern Rivers Shire Council, this is Megan, how can I help you?’
‘Mayor Bradshaw, please.’
He was connected to a tired-sounding female voice. ‘Mayor’s office.’
‘I’d like an appointment to see the mayor this afternoon.’
After a cluck, clucking of disapproval, she said, ‘I’m afraid he’s only here until four, and he’s fully booked. The next available time is tomorrow at three. Who’s calling?’
‘I’m an auditor from the Australian Tax Office. It’s personal. Tomorrow at three suits perfectly. Have a good afternoon.’ Jack ended the call. That should cause a few sleepless nights for Bradshaw if he’s bent, he thought.
The drive to Mullumbimby was magical: sunflowers bobbing in the breeze, iridescent-green cane fields, the perfectly pyramidal peak of Mount Chincogan, Hilltop Hoods on the radio, and a dodgy property developer shitting himself about a tax audit. Occasionally, all the planets did line up.
He parked the car in a quiet street and phoned Caitlin. When she answered, he said, ‘I need you to do something for me. Can you stay on the line? You can talk if you want, but I won’t be listening. Just don’t hang up. I’ll explain later.’
‘Jack?’
As he slid the phone under the driver’s seat, he could still hear Caitlin talking, ‘Jack. Jack. What the hell? JACK.’
He pulled on a plain grey hoody before setting off, head down, towards the council office. He approached from behind and came to a stop with his back to the rear wall of the building. The staff carpark was full, but he didn’t need the ‘Reserved Mayor’ sign to identify the car he was looking for. How many council employees could afford a racing-green Aston Martin?
A single security camera watched over the carpark from low on a wall. Jack checked there was nobody in sight, removed his hoody and, after a few swings, managed to loop the hood over the lens of the camera.
Ricky Martinelli had shown him how to break into most cars, but Aston Martins hadn’t been part of the syllabus. To be fair to Ricky, they were hard to get hold of. It took Jack longer than he’d hoped, but eventually, after wiping his fingerprints from the door, he found himself comfortably seated on soft leather in the rear seat. The window tinting was so dark, he didn’t bother crouching down to hide.
Bradshaw was recognisable from his election posters. He emerged from the building right on cue at four o’clock, a hand energetically gesticulating as he spoke into his phone. Big jowls gave his head a distinctive pear-shape, jowls that wobbled in sync with his equally pear-shaped torso as he waddled towards the car. In contrast to all those posters, he wasn’t smiling. Jack remained silent in the back seat as Bradshaw, still on the phone, opened the door and sat behind the steering wheel.
‘Pick the kids up later. I want you to take the laptop and as much paperwork as you can to your sister’s, in case they arrive with a warrant. I’ll warn the accountants. I’m on my way.’ The mayor ended the call and said to himself, ‘Jesus H Christ.’
The motor sprang to life with its trademark eight-cylinder roar and Jack could breathe again. Bradshaw turned the car out onto the road, drove past the council building and was approaching a roundabout when Jack leaned forward, close to his ear, and said, ‘You must be Tom.’
Even minor accidents seem much worse when you’re sitting in a half-million-dollar car. In retrospect, Jack thought, he might have waited until after the car had safely negotiated the roundabout, particularly a roundabout with a dozen or so small ornamental trees in its centre. As it was, at the sound of Jack’s voice, Tom Bradshaw yanked his head around in fright and the car, in the absence of any other guidance, ignored the give-way sign and careered straight through the centre of the roundabout, scraping the length of the driver’s side along one of the sturdier saplings, all accompanied by a very expensive sound of screeching metal. The car bucked and bounced out the other side of the roundabout and Bradshaw jerked his eyes back to the front, yelled, ‘Shiiiiiiit!’ and snatched the steering wheel to the right just in time to avoid crashing into a drainage culvert.
Bradshaw stomped on the brakes and the car jolted to a halt in the middle of the road. His head spun around. He was breathing heavily, eyes wide. ‘What the hell are you doing in my car?’
‘I want to ask you a few questions about your tax.’
‘What?’ Bradshaw shook his head as if trying to untangle a confusion of irreconcilable thoughts. ‘Are you from the ATO?’
‘No. I’m not interested in your Australian tax affairs.’
‘Then what the hell do you want?’
‘I’m interested in your Luxembourg tax affairs.’ And there it was. Jack saw the flicker in Bradshaw’s eyes, and the brief hesitation before he recovered, and Jack knew he was right, knew who had been the beneficial owner of the Jetty Hotel.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m calling the police.’ Bradshaw reached for his phone.
‘Suit yourself. I’d say you’ll get done for dangerous driving and damage to public property.’ Jack opened his door a fraction, in case Bradshaw tried to lock him in.
A car sounded its horn behind them.
Bradshaw put down his phone. ‘You broke into my car.’
‘Why did you block access to all council documents from 1987?’
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m a journalist at The Beacon.’
Jack could see Bradshaw trying to make sense of it.
‘So, you must be Malcolm Harris’s son?’
‘Uh huh.’
Bradshaw visibly relaxed. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Your father was a very good friend of my late father, Ian.’
‘Are you the owner of a company called Metol?’
The rage returned to Bradshaw’s face, his jowls tremulous. Too late, he screamed, ‘Get out of my car!’ but Jack was already gone, a cacophony of horns from backed up cars accompanying him as he set off to reclaim his hoody.
Back at the Toyota, his phone was still connected with Caitlin’s, but she wasn’t listening. He ended the call, locked the car and walked to the supermarket on the main street, where he used his credit card to buy provisions from the deli.
The tree had been shaken hard, now all he had to do was wait and see what fell out. He didn’t have to wait long.
Chapter Fifty-two
Thursday, 14th November
Zoe lived in one of the new trendy developments on the fringes of the Arts and Industrial Estate. Jack felt conscious of his appearance as he walked past busy designer shops and climbed the stairs to her apartment. Among all the boho devotees with their flowing linen, flower garlands and sandals, his charcoal-grey suit seemed out of place. The suit also seemed out of place on him. Had he acclimatised so much in the two weeks since he’d left the boardroom?
He knocked. Approaching high heels clacked over a timber floor. The door opened to reveal Zoe in a sombre black pants suit. She looked surprised to see him.
‘Jack! What are you doing here?’
‘I’m driving you both.’ He checked his watch. ‘And for once I’m on time.’
Zoe stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘You haven’t seen it have you?’
‘Seen what?’
‘You’d better come in.’
She ushered him into the kitchen. An enormous bouquet of white roses lay on the table, still wrapped in cellophane. Jack kicked himself for being so insensitive as to arrive empty handed.
Caitlin stood with her back to him, leaning against the kitchen bench, staring out the window. Her dreadlocks were tied at the back and fell over a simple midnight-blue dress that flowed uninterrupted from her shoulders to her knees. High heels had replaced the Doc Martens.
‘Hello, Caitlin.’
She turned to him, and his heart jumped. She wore no jewellery, and her freckles had been painted out. She looked beautiful. And vulnerable, her moist eyes betraying her sadness. She simply nodded in reply, with no change of expression.
‘Here,’ said Zoe, as she threw a thick newspaper onto the table.
Big black letters. ‘JACK HARRIS: PERSON OF INTEREST IN MURDER INVESTIGATION.’ Shocked, Jack grabbed the paper and read.
One of Australia’s most eligible and secretive bachelors, Jack Harris, the son of the publisher of this newspaper, Malcolm Harris, is allegedly a person of interest in the brutal murder of Patrick O’Shaughnessy in Byron Bay eleven days ago. Police are said to be keen to interview Mr Harris about his whereabouts on the night of the murder. Sources close to the investigation stated there was a troubled history between the two men, and that Mr Harris has been unable to produce an alibi for the night the murder was committed.
Jack could feel his fury rising, knowing whose name he would find on the by-line. And there it was, the man who’d been seeking revenge on him for all those years, Angus fucking Bain.
‘You know this is rubbish, don’t you?’ said Jack.
‘Of course,’ said Zoe, ‘but it’s pretty insensitive timing.’
Caitlin turned back to stare out the window and Zoe placed an arm around her shoulders.
Jack turned the newspaper to page two and saw what he was dreading. The photograph was deliberately chosen to make him look guilty, but at least the large sunglasses, low hat and bowed head meant he was virtually unrecognisable.
There was a knock at the door and Zoe said, ‘I’ve asked a friend to drive us. It would be better if you went separately.’ She turned to Caitlin. ‘Ready?’
Caitlin nodded, collected her clutch bag from the table and said softly to Jack, ‘I’ll see you there.’ She reached out and touched the rose petals. ‘It was very kind of your father.’
‘What?’
She turned and followed Zoe down the hall.
Jack snatched the card from its ribbon.
Please accept my deepest commiserations at your loss. Your father was a great man, and one of our best journalists. You should be very proud of his legacy. Malcolm Harris.
