The Bat (5 page)

Watkins cleared his throat. “Let’s hold on to our hats here. After all, strangulation’s not such an unusual type of killing after rape. What’s the geographical distribution, Yong Sue? The Darling’s in the bloody outback, more than a thousand kilometers from Sydney.”

“No luck, sir. I couldn’t find any geographical pattern.” Yong Sue looked genuinely sorry.

“Well, four strangled women scattered across the whole state over a period of ten years is not a lot to—”

“One more thing, sir. All the women were blonde. I mean, not blonde hair, but fair hair, almost white.”

Lebie released a silent whistle. The table went quiet.

Watkins was still looking skeptical. “Can you do your sums on this, Yong? Have a squiz at statistical significance and all that, find out if the odds are within reasonable limits before we cry wolf. For safety’s sake perhaps you should check all of Australia first. And include the unsolved rapes. We might dig up something there.”

“That’ll take a bit of time. But I’ll try, sir.” Yong smiled again.

“OK. Kensington and Holy, why aren’t you on your way to Nimbin?”

“We’re going early tomorrow morning, sir,” Andrew said. “There’s a recent rape case in Lithgow I’d like to investigate first. I have a feeling there may be a connection. We were just heading there now.”

Watkins frowned. “Lithgow? We’re trying to work as a team here, Kensington. That means we discuss and coordinate and we don’t wander off on our own. To my knowledge, we’ve never spoken about any rape cases in Lithgow.”

“Just a hunch, sir.”

Watkins sighed. “Well, McCormack seems to believe you have a kind of sixth sense.”

“We Blackfellas have closer contact with the spiritual world than you whities, you know, sir.”

“In my department we don’t base our police work on that sort of thing, Kensington.”

“A joke, sir. I’ve got a bit more than that on this matter.”

Watkins shook his head. “Just be on the plane early tomorrow morning, OK?”

They took the freeway from Sydney. Lithgow is an industrial town of ten to twelve thousand inhabitants, but it seemed more like a medium-sized village to Harry. Outside the police station there was a flashing blue light nailed on top of a post.

The chief there received them warmly. He was an overweight, jovial type with a stack of double chins and went by the name of Larsen. Distant relatives in Norway.

“Do you know any of the Norwegian Larsens, mate?” he asked.

“Well, there are quite a few of them,” Harry replied.

“Yes, I heard Gran say we’ve got a lot of family there.”

“You sure do.”

Larsen remembered the rape case, no problem.

“Fortunately, that doesn’t happen so often here in Lithgow. It was at the beginning of November. She was bundled over in a backstreet while walking home from the night shift at the factory where she worked, dragged into a car and driven off. He threatened her with a big knife, took a turning onto an isolated forest road at the foot of the Blue Mountains, where she was raped on the backseat. The rapist had his hands round her throat and was squeezing when a car hooted behind them. The driver was on his way to his log cabin and thought he had surprised a couple making love on the deserted forest road, and for that reason did not get out. When the rapist got into the front seat to move the car, the woman managed to scramble out of the rear door and ran over to the other car. The rapist knew the game was up, jumped on the accelerator and made a break for it.”

“Did either of them get the registration number?”

“Nope, it was dark and everything happened too fast.”

“Did the woman get a decent look at the man? Did you get a description?”

“Sure. Well, sort of. As I said, it was dark.”

“We’ve got a photo. Have you got an address for the woman?”

Larsen went to the filing cabinet and began to flick through. He was breathing heavily.

“By the way,” Harry started, “do you know if she’s blonde?”

“Blonde?”

“Yeah, fair-haired, white.”

Larsen’s double chins began to wobble as he breathed even harder. Harry realized he was laughing.

“Don’t think so, mate. She’s a Koori.”

Harry searched Andrew’s face.

Andrew looked up at the ceiling. “She’s black,” he said.

“As coal,” Larsen said.

*   *   *

“So Koori’s a tribe, is it?” Harry asked as they were driving away from the police station.

“Well, not quite,” Andrew said.

“Not quite?”

“It’s a long story but when the whites came to Australia there were 750,000 Indigenous Australians spread between many tribes. They spoke over 250 languages, several of them as different as English and Chinese. Many tribes are now extinct. As the traditional tribal structure collapsed, Indigenous people started to use more general terms. The Aboriginal groups who live here in the southeast are called Kooris.”

“But why on earth didn’t you check if she was blonde first.”

“A slip. I must have misread. Don’t computers flicker in Norway?”

“Shit, Andrew, we don’t have time to waste on such long shots.”

“Yes, we do. And we have time for something which will put you in a better mood as well,” Andrew said, suddenly taking a right.

“Where are we going?”

“To an Australian agricultural show, the real thing.”

“An agricultural show? I’ve got a dinner date, Andrew.”

“Oh? With Miss Sweden, I assume? Relax, this is done in two shakes. By the way, I take it you, as a representative of the legal authorities, are aware of the consequences of having a private relationship with a potential witness?”

“This dinner forms part of the investigation. That goes without saying. Important questions will be asked.”

“Of course.”

The marketplace was in a wide-open expanse with a few scattered factory buildings and garages as the only neighbors. The final heat in the tractor race had just finished and the exhaust fumes still lay thick over the field as they pulled up in front of a large tent. The market buzzed with activity, the stalls rang with calls and shouts and everyone seemed to have a glass of beer in their hand and a smile on their face.

“Party and commerce in splendid union,” Andrew said. “Don’t suppose you have anything like this in Norway.”

“Well, we have markets. They’re called
markeder
.”

“Maaar …” Andrew essayed.

“Never mind.”

By the marquee there were some huge posters proclaiming “The Jim Chivers Boxing Team” in big red letters. Below were pictures of the ten boxers who obviously comprised the team. Name, age, birthplace and weight of each were also given. At the bottom was: “The Challenge. Are you up to it?”

Inside, young men were queuing by a table to sign a piece of paper.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked.

“These are young men from the area who are going to try and beat some of Jimmy’s boxers. If they can there are
great rewards, and even more important, local honor and fame. Now they’re signing a declaration that they’re fit and healthy and have accepted that the arranger will not take any responsibility for any sudden deterioration in their physical condition,” Andrew explained.

“Sheesh, is that legal?”

“Well …” Andrew hesitated. “There was a kind of ban in 1971, so they had to change the procedure a bit. The original Jim Chivers led a boxing team that traveled round the whole country to rallies and fairs after the Second World War. Many of those who went on to become boxing champions were from Jimmy’s team. There was always a variety of nationalities—Chinese, Italians, Greeks. And Aboriginals. In those days volunteers could choose who they wanted to box. So, for example, if you were an anti-Semite, you could pick out a Jew. Even though the chances of being beaten up by a Jew were pretty high.”

Harry chuckled. “Doesn’t that just stoke up racism?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Australians are used to living with different cultures and races, but there’s always some friction. And then it’s better to have a scrap in the ring than in the streets. An Aboriginal guy in Jimmy’s team who did well would have been a hero to his own wherever he came from. He created a tiny sense of solidarity and honor in all the humiliation. I don’t think it widened the gulf between the races, either. If the white boys were given a hiding by a black boy it created more respect than hatred. Australians are pretty sporting on that front.”

“You sound like a fully signed-up redneck.”

Andrew laughed. “Almost, I’m an ocker. An uncivilized bloke from the outback.”

“You are not.”

Andrew laughed even louder.

The first bout started. A short, compact red-haired guy with his own gloves and his own gang of supporters against a much smaller man from the Chivers team.

“Mick against Mick,” Andrew said with a knowledgeable expression.

“Your sixth sense?” Harry asked.

“My two eyes. Red hair, so Irish. Tough buggers. This is going to be a hard fight.”

“Go, Johnny, go-go-go!” the gang chanted.

They managed two more choruses before the fight was over. By then Johnny had been punched on the nose three times and didn’t want to go on.

“The Irish aren’t what they were,” Andrew sighed.

The speakers crackled, and the MC introduced Robin “The Murri” Toowoomba from the Chivers camp and Bobby “The Lobby” Pain, a local giant who entered the ring with a leap over the ropes and a roar. He pulled off his T-shirt and revealed a powerful hairy chest and bulging biceps. A woman dressed in white was jumping up and down close by the ring, and Bobby blew her a kiss before two assistants tied his boxing gloves. The marquee began to buzz as Toowoomba slunk in between the ropes. He was an erect, unusually black and good-looking man.

“Murri?” Harry asked.

“Aboriginal from Queensland.”

Johnny’s gang came to life as they realized they could use “Bobby” in their choruses now. The gong was struck and the two boxers approached each other. The white man was bigger, almost a head taller than his black adversary, but even to the untrained eye it was easy to see that he didn’t move with the Murri’s light-footed elegance.

Bobby rushed forward and launched a missile of a punch at Toowoomba, who swayed backward to avoid it. The audience groaned and the woman in white screamed encouragement. Bobby punched holes in the air a couple of times before Toowoomba glided in and planted a careful, probing right in the Lobby’s face. Bobby staggered back two paces and it looked as if it was goodnight nurse for him.

“I should have put
two
hundred on him,” Andrew commented.

Toowoomba circled Bobby, threw a couple of jabs and swayed back with the same ease when Bobby swung his log-like arms. Bobby was panting and yelling with frustration while Toowoomba never seemed to be where he had been a moment before. The audience started to whistle. Toowoomba raised a hand as if in greeting, then buried it in Bobby’s stomach. He folded and stood doubled up in the corner of the ring. Toowoomba drew back a couple of paces and looked concerned.

“Finish him off, you black bastard!” Andrew screamed. Toowoomba turned in surprise, smiled and waved a hand above his head.

“Don’t stand there grinning, do your job, you dingbat! I’ve got money on you.”

Toowoomba turned to get the whole thing over and done with, but as he was about to give Bobby the
coup de grâce
, the gong went. The two boxers approached their corners as the MC took the microphone. The woman in white was already in Bobby’s corner and giving him an earful while one of his assistants passed him a bottle of beer.

Andrew was annoyed. “Robin doesn’t want to hurt the whitie, fair dinkum. But he ought to respect the fact that I’ve put money on him, the useless bugger.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know Robin Toowoomba,” Andrew said.

The gong went again and this time Bobby stood waiting in the corner for Toowoomba, who approached with a determined gait. Bobby was holding his arms high to protect his head and Toowoomba fired a body punch. Bobby collapsed backward against the rope. Toowoomba turned and looked imploringly at the MC—who was also working as a kind of referee—to make him stop the fight.

Andrew screamed again, but too late.

Bobby’s punch sent Toowoomba flying and he hit the canvas with a thud. As he staggered to his feet, dazed, Bobby was on him like a hurricane. The blows came straight and true, and Toowoomba’s head was batted to and fro like a ping-pong ball. A thin stripe of blood issued forth from one nostril.

“Shit! A hustler!” Andrew shouted. “Bloody hell, Robin, you fell for that one.”

Toowoomba had his hands in front of his face and was retreating as Bobby went after him. Bobby’s left arm was pumping in and out, followed by powerful haymakers and right uppercuts. The crowd was in ecstasy. The woman in white was on her feet again, screaming the first syllable of his name and holding the vowel in a long, shrill tone: “Boooo …”

The MC shook his head as the gang of cheerers quickly launched its new chorus: “Go, Bobby, go-go-go, Bobby-be-good!”

“That’s it. It’s over,” Andrew said, dispirited.

“Toowoomba’s going to lose?”

“Are you crazy? Toowoomba’s going to kill the bastard. I’d been hoping it wouldn’t be too gruesome today.”

Harry concentrated, to try and see what Andrew could see. Toowoomba had fallen back on the ropes; he appeared almost relaxed as Bobby pummeled away at his abdomen. For a moment Harry thought Toowoomba was going to sleep. The woman in white pulled the ropes behind the Murri. Bobby changed tactics and went for the head, but Toowoomba avoided the punches by moving his body forward and backward in a slow, lazy glide. Almost like a hooded snake, Harry thought, like a …

Cobra!

Bobby stiffened in mid-punch. His head was half turned to the left, with an expression suggesting he had just remembered something, then his eyes rolled back, the mouth guard
slipped out and blood spurted in a thin, even jet from a tiny hole on the bridge of his nose where the bone was broken. Toowoomba waited until Bobby fell forward before hitting him again. The marquee went quiet, and Harry heard the awful crunch as the blow hit Bobby’s nose for a second time, and the woman’s voice as she screamed what remained of his name: