Crucifixion Creek (30 page)

There is a moment's silence, then she says, ‘Is this for real? What the hell's going
on, Harry?'

‘Just get here, Deb, fast as you can.' He rings off.

There is music faintly audible at the front porch of the Point Piper home—Mozart,
something poignant from the Vienna years. Harry takes a small plastic bottle of hydrogen
peroxide from his pocket and sprays and wipes his pistol, which he wraps and tucks
into his belt. He rings the bell and the music fades. Oldfield opens the door and
Harry just stares at him for a moment, trying to reconcile the urbane features with
the truth he now knows.

‘Well, Detective Sergeant Belltree? What can I do for you?' But
Harry thinks he can
see a flicker in Oldfield's eyes, as if he already understands.

‘A few minutes of your time, sir.'

Oldfield glances over Harry's shoulder, then shrugs. ‘Very well.'

He leads the way to chrome and leather seats—authentic Barcelona chairs—and they
sit, facing each other across the glass-topped Barcelona coffee table.

‘I've just come from interviewing Joost Potgeiter,' Harry says, and a bleak distance
settles upon Oldfield's face. ‘He has provided details of your role in the illegal
importation of children from Indonesia for sexual purposes. Acting on the information
he provided, I have also been to premises at Crucifixion Creek, where Peter Rizzo
has been found disposing of the bodies of dead children. He also is in the process
of making a full confession.'

Oldfield stares at him, then his eyes swivel away to a decanter on the sideboard.
‘I would like a very large scotch. How about you?'

Harry says, ‘Stay where you are. I'll get it.'

He pours one glass and sets it down in front of Oldfield, then draws the pistol from
his belt, wipes the butt once more, and sets it down with an ugly clunk on the glass
top beside the scotch.

‘What's that for?'

‘It has one bullet in it,' Harry says. ‘The police will be here in a moment to arrest
you. It's up to you what you do with it. I want only one thing from you. I want to
know why you wanted my father dead.'

‘Ah.' Oldfield sighs. ‘The indefatigable Harry Belltree. We've watched your progress
with something like awe.' He reaches for the whisky and takes a deep swallow, then
clears his throat, raising his eyebrows as if contemplating the inevitable. ‘It was
nothing personal on my part, Harry. But, like you, your old man was very persistent.
He upset people, friends of mine.'

‘Who?'

‘That I can't tell you.'

‘Why? How did he upset them?'

Oldfield gives an exaggerated shrug. ‘It doesn't matter now. Let me give you good
advice. Forget it. You can't bring him back. Live your life for the future, not the
past.'

He cocks his head and Harry catches the sound of a siren. Distant at first, coming
closer.

‘Your colleagues,' Oldfield says. ‘You'd better go and receive them.'

‘Why?' Harry insists, but Oldfield just shakes his head. The siren, loud now, abruptly
cuts out. The doorbell rings and Harry gets slowly to his feet. He opens the front
door and shows the two uniforms his ID. ‘You'll find him—' but his words are cut
off by the crack of a gunshot.

39

The critical incident team is led by the same senior officer, a superintendent from
North West Metropolitan Region, who interviewed Harry after Greg's murder. He stares
balefully now at Harry.

‘We may as well make this a regular appointment, Belltree. March, O'Brian, and now
Oldfield, in the space of a month. You need your own personal CIT. How do you do
it?'

‘Just lucky, sir.'

‘Lucky.' He glances at his two companions, who frown. ‘What were you doing in Oldfield's
house?'

Harry tells the story. He went to the Creek to check up on his brother-in-law's business
and stumbled upon Peter Rizzo burying bodies. Rizzo said he was doing it under duress
from the Crows, who were acting on the instructions of Derryn Oldfield. ‘I arrested
Rizzo, called Inspector Velasco for back-up, then went to Mr Oldfield's house to
question him.'

‘How did you know where he lived? It's not public knowledge.'

‘Inspector Velasco and I had been there once before, to question Oldfield about
his relationship with Alexander Kristich.'

The three CIT officers begin turning the pages of their files, searching for the
reference, and Harry gives them the date. ‘It's a bit complicated.'

The superintendent's frown deepens. ‘Who did you notify, that you were going to interview
Oldfield?'

‘No one, sir. I was at fault there, I admit. I knew Rizzo would spill his guts to
Inspector Velasco and name Oldfield, and that she'd send backup there, as she in
fact did, but I should have called it in. I think I was distracted by what I'd seen
in the hole Rizzo was digging. Have you been there, sir?'

‘Yes.' The superintendent clears his throat, as if he can still taste the foul air.
‘So you went to a murder suspect's home without consultation or backup, to question
him without a witness.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘I find it inconceivable that an experienced homicide detective would do such a thing.
I can only think of two reasons why you would.'

‘Sir?'

‘One, to intimidate or threaten Oldfield without a witness present. Or two, to warn
him.'

‘No, sir. I wanted to arrest him. I cautioned him and told him he was under arrest
on suspicion of involvement in a homicide.'

‘Did you restrain him, or search him for a weapon?'

‘No, sir. I had used my handcuffs to restrain Rizzo, and I was about to search Oldfield
when other officers arrived and rang the doorbell. I went to let them in, and that's
when Oldfield must have got to his pistol and shot himself.'

It goes on like this for some time, the questions repeated and rephrased, details
examined.

Eventually, late in the evening, they release him, promising more tomorrow. They
order him not to communicate with any other officers tonight. He has already surrendered
his weapon and police ID. The double padlocks are back on his locker.

40

Harry spends the next morning with the critical incident team before he is finally
released and told to go home. He goes back to the homicide suite, where he runs into
Deb. She waves him into a meeting room and closes the door.

‘Harry, what's happening?'

‘Don't ask me, Deb. I've been with the CIT all this time. I don't know what's been
going on.'

Her eyes are searching his face, trying to read him. ‘You've really been in the thick
of it, haven't you? Rizzo, Oldfield.'

He shrugs. ‘They were panicking, Deb. It was only a matter of time before it all
fell apart. What about Kelly Pool? What happened to her?'

‘She's in Westmead. She was pretty confused, but from what we can gather, she was
drugged and taken to Potgeiter's property out west, where he raped and tortured her,
then left her hanging down a mine shaft overnight. The next day he took her back
into his house, then he disappeared and she managed to call for help. It's kind of
an odd story, isn't it?'

‘Yeah. Did he do a runner? Have you picked him up?'

‘We found his body down the bottom of the shaft, along with the corpses of four children.'

‘Jesus.'

‘There are strange wounds on his body. The pathologist is carrying out a second post-mortem
today with another expert.'

She's still keeping her eyes fixed on him.

He says, ‘Anything else?'

‘They reckon the gun Oldfield killed himself with was the same one used to shoot
the bikies, Bebchuk and Haddad.'

‘Really? How does that work?'

‘Hard to say. We're still trying to figure it out.'

‘Deb, why are you looking at me like that?'

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know, like I'm an alien. Or you are.' He grins at her and she holds his
gaze for a moment, then smiles too and looks away.

‘I don't know, Harry. Ever since we met Kelly Pool at the siege… remember?'

‘Sure.'

‘Ever since then things have been going haywire, and you always seem to be in the
thick of it.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘Is there anything that you've been keeping from us?'

‘If I had anything to say, Deb, you'd be the first to know.'

‘Well…Bob Marshall's like he's on hot coals. He reckons when we release all of this
it'll bring down the state government.'

‘What about Maram Mansur? He was the other one in that Jakarta photo that Kelly published.'

‘Done a bunk by the look of it. His boat left Sydney three days ago. They're trying
to track it down.'

There is an awkward silence, then she says, ‘I'd better get on. What about you?'

‘They've told me to go home.'

‘Okay. See you then.' She turns away and he heads for the exit.

Harry drives over to Westmead Hospital. Kelly is in recovery after surgery to repair
both internal and external injuries. She grips his wrist and he lowers his head to
hear her whisper.

‘You saved me, Harry.'

‘You haven't told them that, have you, Kelly?'

‘No, but I want to. I want them all to know.'

‘You mustn't. You'll get me into a heap of trouble.'

‘I know. But I'm already writing the story in my head. “My night in hell.” Is that
too lurid? It's true. That's what it was.'

He wonders if that's a good idea. Wouldn't it be better to try to put it out of her
mind, to think of other things? But she reads his thoughts.

‘That's my way of dealing with it, Harry. It's my way of pushing that man into a
sack and throwing him away. But I'm sorry I can't tell them how much I owe you.'

As he returns to his car, Harry gets a call on his mobile. It is Toby Wagstaff.

‘Harry, Deb told me you'd left. I need to have a private talk with you. There are
things I need to get straight.'

‘I'll come in, sir.'

‘No, I want this completely off the record. The shit is about to hit the fan big
time, and I want to bounce a few things off you. Private thoughts, no one else to
know, okay?'

‘Sure.'

What the hell does this mean? Is the squad compromised in some way? Does Wagstaff
know something about Harry? ‘Okay. Where do you want to meet?'

‘The Creek. Meet me outside your brother-in-law's burnt-out place. I'm down here
now with crime scene at the Rizzo unit. They're removing the last of the bodies,
but they'll have cleared the
place by tonight and everyone will have gone. I'll stay
on. Meet me here at seven.'

‘Right. No problem.'

41

She has been indoors too much; she needs to get out. She checks the time on her computer
and goes to the little hallway. Pulls on her coat and picks up her cane. As she closes
the front door behind her she takes a deep breath, relishing the smells of damp brickwork
and mould. She makes her way down the lane, taking care with the tree roots that
have buckled the footpath, then turns left, up towards Crown Street. The sounds of
traffic become louder, the purr of tyres and the growl of engines. She can visualise
every building along the way, every cross street, feeling with her cane for the obstacles
that are scattered in her path, the lamp posts, traffic signs, litter bins, bus shelters.
Ahead of her she hears the bleeping of the pedestrian crossing. It has stopped by
the time she reaches it, and she stretches out her hand to the pad, feeling its steady
throb, like a little electronic heart. The bleeping starts again and she steps off
onto the roadway. Halfway across she hears running footsteps and someone crashes
into her, knocking the cane out of her hand. She steadies herself, then bends down
to retrieve it. Her fingers can't find it. The beeping is becoming more insistent
as the time runs
out. At last she feels the smooth tube and grasps it and stands
up, but now feels disoriented, unsure which way to go. The beeping abruptly stops
and engines begin to rev. She heads for the absent sound, feels a kerb with her cane
and steps forward, unsure if she has moved forward or back. She stretches out a hand
and feels glass, smells something musty and old—the antiques shop. Good. She takes
a deep breath. Panic over. She is on the other side. She turns left and continues.

When she reaches the surgery one of the girls recognises her and shows her to a chair.
‘We're running twenty minutes behind,' she murmurs. Jenny is content, listening to
the sounds in the waiting room, the health tips on the TV, the chatter from the girls
on reception, a mother arguing with her child.

Then the doctor is at her side, taking her arm and guiding her through to her room.
‘So how have you been, Jenny?' she asks, and Jenny tells her the abridged version.
There is an examination, tests, a conversation. Then the result. ‘We'll do all we
can to help,' the doctor says, and Jenny wipes a tear from her eye.

She walks home in a bubble, oblivious to all the difficulties. They have waited so
long, almost given up, and now at last. Of course it's very early days, barely begun,
but it
has
begun. She replays the doctor's words over in her head.
Yes, I'm quite
sure.

It is a kind of miracle. There has only been that one time, that night when Harry
came back from the Gipps Tower, smelling of gunpowder. She thinks of Shiva, the destroyer
and creator.

She imagines with a shiver telling Harry when he comes home tonight.

42

Crucifixion Creek is a dark and forbidding hollow, the silhouette of its buildings
barely touched by the dim glow of the surrounding street lights. There is no passing
traffic, and as Harry walks down the service road towards Greg's ruined site he sees
that Rizzo's shed, its perimeter draped with police tape, has been abandoned for
the night.