Peter Corris - Aftershock

I wiped the grin and tried to look professional. ‘I get the impression that you don’t like people barging into town and bothering the citizens with a lot of questions. Fair enough. I wouldn’t like it either if I was in your shoes. How about this? You find a few minutes in your busy day to help me-get the autopsy report, anything your people might have had on Mr Bach, a few odds and ends. You let me see them and I get out of your hair so much the quicker.’

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Would you have to check with your superiors to do that?’

‘No, not exactly. I was the liaison officer for the emergency unit that was set up. The one the Admiral headed up.’

‘I’m told he did a great job.’

‘Not bad. I think the sorts of things you want would be on file in that unit, at least temporarily. I could get them.’

‘I’d appreciate it. Where and when could we meet?’

She consulted some scribble on a scratch pad. ‘I still don’t know why I’m doing this. I could find some time later this afternoon… I have to be in court tomorrow morning…’

It wasn’t the best arrangement because it gave her a chance to consult with her Dad, but it was the best I was going to get. ‘Outside the court house? Tomorrow at 12.30?’

‘All right.’

I thanked her and left the office, feeling her eyes on my back every step of the way.

For the next hour or so I confirmed my impression that good things had been done on the Newcastle waterfront and at the train terminal. A pedestrian mall had been constructed with walkways leading up over the tracks to restaurants, shops and pleasant spots for just sitting and looking beside the water. I had a light beer and a sandwich in a cafe that afforded me a view across the Hunter River to Stockton. The price would have made old Newcastle identities like Hughie Dwyer blanch, but no-one now could eat the sort of sandwiches Hughie would have been accustomed to, so it all rinses out in the wash.

I unparked my car and drove through the streets to the site of the major earthquake disaster-the Workers’ Club on the corner of King and Union Streets. The area itself surprised me; I got lost and approached along Union from the Hamilton end. I had expected a mixture of the modern plastic and the old basic, but the wide road had palm trees growing along the side and ran past a big park that looked relaxed and gracious.

I’d seen press photographs of the damage to the club but they hadn’t quite prepared me for the reality. The building looked to have been a huge barn of a place, constructed in sections over time, plain to the point of ugliness. Now, it looked as if a giant fist had smashed through the roof, driving upper floors down through those below and dropping the whole lot into the underground car park. There was failed metal everywhere-steel girders twisted like spaghetti and reinforcing rods sticking out of concrete like bones poking through the skin. The whole area was surrounded by a cyclone fence and scaffolding and the demolisher’s sign looked like a puny piece of boasting. In fact, demolition and reconstruction were well underway, but the site still looked as if nature rather than man was calling the shots.

I drove past the club and the fire station next door and turned into King Street. A motel sign by the side of the road reminded me of that practical necessity. I turned off into a street that climbed a hill and located the motel near the crest. The Hillside, what else? It commanded a view of the city and the water and it had a pool. Lotto winners have to spend their money somehow. I booked in and swam several laps of the somewhat murky pool, which isn’t as impressive as it sounds-it was about ten metres long.

After a shower and a can of beer from the minibar, I fell asleep on the bed. My last thought was of the chevrons on Glenys Withers’ crisp, white shirtsleeve. Kiss me goodnight, Senior Sergeant.

I woke up about five o’clock with the late afternoon sun streaming into the small, warm room. As often happens, I woke with questions in my head. This time they were what happened to Oscar Bach’s business and who wound up his affairs? Probably some solicitor in Newcastle. I reproached myself-I could have been doing something useful instead of sleeping. I took my notebook and the Gregory’s for Newcastle and environs and set out for Dudley.

I became aware of the car following me soon after making the turn off from the highway to Kahiba. Bad move, to leave the main road when you’re the subject of possible hostile attention, but there it was. The tail was a dark, anonymous-looking sedan-a bad sign. Amateurs follow people and commit crimes in red Alfas, people who know what they’re about, don’t. I drove along the narrow road with the forest on either side, speeding up just a bit to make sure I was the subject. I was. The dark car stayed with me. I slowed down and two other cars pulled out and passed me and the tail. Now it was just us and I wasn’t in the mood. I gunned the motor and decided to make a race of it through this section to Whitebridge where it looked as if there might be more people around.

The Falcon was in good order and speedy. I was pulling away from what I decided was a Toyota when I saw the level crossing ahead. My reaction was purely instinctive. I hit the brakes and went into the sort of skidding slide that slows down time. When I was young there were a lot of these crossings around Sydney and people got killed at them regularly. I could remember front-page newspaper pictures of the tangled wrecks and blood-daubed victims. These pictures-were going through my head as I fought the skid, strained my ears for the sound of a train and kept my eyes on the rear vision mirror.

I stopped the skid and the car just before the crossing and needed a fraction of a second to be sure that the line was clear. I didn’t get it. The Toyota slewed past me in a controlled glide and stopped with its front bumper inches away from mine. Another movement from either vehicle and the road would be littered with broken glass and plastic. For no good reason, something Helen Broadway had once said came into my head, ‘Bourgeois love of property affects all classes.’ I swore and rammed the gear shift into first, ready to plough forward, when I felt and heard the window by my right ear shatter. Glass showered in on me as I threw myself across to the other side of the bench seat. The Falcon stalled and so did I.

I could feel the blood on my face, just like those victims of thirty years before. I scrabbled for the Colt I kept in a clip under the dashboard before I remembered that I didn’t have it there anymore. It was in the cupboard under the stairs in Glebe. New car, the quiet life. My Smith amp; Wesson was in the glove box. I heaved myself back at the driver’s side door, determined to do something.

‘Fuck you,’ a voice said. ‘I’ve got your fuckin’ blood all over me.’

He was big, carrying what looked like a short crowbar and leaning against the door. I glared at him-big, broad face, drooping moustache, weight-lifter’s neck, white T shirt-all flecked with blood.

‘Fuck you, too,’ I said. ‘Open the door and I’ll bend that crowbar across your head.’

He was calm. He was good. He was very good. He said, ‘The message is, watch yourself, smartarse.’ He reached through the broken window and tapped me delicately on the right temple with the crowbar. The warm, bright afternoon turned to midnight.

I must have been out for a minute only or even less. I was aware of a face at the broken window and a voice not directed at me.

‘He’s alive.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said.

‘He says he’s all right.’

Another voice said, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here, then.’

Young voices. Young men. Long hair, jeans and sneakers. I turned my head and saw them jump back into a Holden Commodore with several hundredweight of chrome trim. The engine roared and the Commodore took off in the direction of Whitebridge. Its rear end bucked as it jolted across the tracks. Not hard to work out-stolen car; kids with just enough conscience to take a look. I still had the tracks to cross and I wondered if I could do it.