paedophiles, and some of them’re in high places. Put two and two together.’
‘All this’d be known to the police?’
‘Hard to say. Some of it.’
‘I got the impression from Lucas that MacPherson was a bit of a loser, on the skids.’
De Witt shrugged and lit the last cigarette from his packet of plain Camels. He looked anxiously at the soft pack as he crumpled it. ‘Probably a pose. They say he could act a lot of parts.’
‘You know more about him than you let on in the article. I get the feeling you took an interest before he got killed.’
‘Right.’
‘So, am I homing in on your story?’
‘No, no. I’m glad you’re in. Now you can go sniffing around that stuff while I do the safe work.’
As I hoped he could, he filled me in with more information about MacPherson and the underworld of the Illawarra.
‘Are you happy to stand back?’
De Witt pressed the butt of his last smoke into the soft ground and turned towards me. His young/old face looked tired. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘I’m thirty-six and I feel fifty. I’m off the booze and grass and I have to get off the smokes. I’ve got a wife and two young kids. I’m looking for a quiet life. Nice editorship here or somewhere else. People who go where you’re going down here have a way of turning up very hurt or rather dead.’
De Witt drove off and I climbed the gate. I went past the burnt-out house and further down looking for the track to Sue Holland’s land. I’m no country man, but it wasn’t hard. Several large stands of lantana had been slashed to open up a path that at one time had been heavily overgrown. Now it was clear enough, showing signs of being walked fairly frequently by someone handy with a machete.
I tramped along, ducking under low branches but in no danger of losing the track, until I emerged at the side of the Holland cottage. I wasn’t trying to be quiet and the old dog sussed me out and came towards me with his head up and
his tail stiff.
‘Fred,’ I said. ‘Good old Fred. Friend. Friend.’
Fred growled several times and then let out a series of short, sharp barks. Sue Holland came from the back of the house. She looked flustered and upset, maybe angry.
‘You again. At least you had the sense not to pat him. He doesn’t like people coming from that direction.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t know that. I didn’t mean any disruption. I just-’
‘It’s all right. I’ve just had a run-in with some bikie hoons roaring around in one of my paddocks. Arseholes.’
‘Bikies, or trail bikes?’
‘I know the difference, Mr Hardy.’
‘Did they…do anything?’
‘You mean rape me? I’d like to see them try. I capsicum-sprayed one of them so that he fell off.’
‘I didn’t hear anything. When was this?’
Her tanned face was pale and perspiration had matted her hair. ‘An hour ago. The adrenalin’s gone and I’m shaking.’
‘Okay. You need to sit down and have a hot drink with plenty of sugar in it.’
‘Yuck.’
‘Honey then. Something to boost-’
‘Mr Hardy, I’m sorry but I think men suck as a species. I’ll deal with my body chemistry in my own way. What are you doing here?’
The only way to deal with Sue Holland was to be as direct as she was. ‘Who made you the offer for your land?’
‘What?’
‘You told me Frederick Farmer had had an offer for his place and so had you. I want to know who made your offer. If you know who made his, so much the better.’
The dog had taken up a position by her side but he’d grown tired of the conversation and looked as if he’d like to head back to his kennel. Sue Holland definitely needed a rest as well. She put her hand to her forehead and felt the hair pasted there. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I can’t think. Can I get back to you?’
‘Of course. You’ve got the mobile number. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine. Come on, Fred.’ She turned on her heel and she and the dog went back to the cottage. Birds burst into song as I moved and I could hear other forms of wildlife rustling in the scrub. A bit too early for sunbathing snakes, but I kept an eye out just the same. I followed the gravelled track back to the road and went up the hill to where the Falcon was parked. For me, that was enough bushwalking and country life for one day.
According to De Witt, MacPherson had kept up a kind of connection with the university, doing odd courses in a lackadaisical way to give him access to student drug users. De Witt himself was a part-time tutor in journalism, had been a recreational pot smoker, and heard grapevine stories about MacPherson. One of the stories was that, although MacPherson was married, he had a bikie girlfriend.
‘He kept this very dark,’ De Witt had said. ‘I doubt the police know about her.’
The woman’s name was Wendy Jones and she lived in Port Kembla.
‘When you say bikie…?’
‘D’you know the joke Roseanne used to tell when she was a standup?’
I didn’t.
De Witt assumed the pose. ‘It goes something like this: “Bikers. I hate bikers. They smell, they’re dirty, got lice in their hair and beards, they chew tobacco and piss by the side of the road-and that’s just the women.” Never met her, but from what I hear, that’s something like your Wendy. Probably not as grotty.’
De Witt didn’t have an address for her but he said there was a dirt track in a waste ground area to the south of Port Kembla where the bikies raced, drank and did the other things bikies do.
‘When?’
‘Every night, so long as the different gangs aren’t actually fire-bombing each other.’
‘Hard scene to infiltrate. I’ve never ridden a motorbike in my life.’
‘Oh, plenty of civilians turn up for the product.’
‘The cops?’
‘Know they’re outnumbered and possibly outgunned.’
‘Great.’
De Witt had been fairly specific about where the bikie meeting place was located and I wondered whether he might have made the trip there himself in his more toxic days. I drove south keeping an eye on the rear vision mirrors. The last thing I needed was to attract police interest. In fact the more I thought about it, the more sensible it seemed to get a different car. I left the Falcon in a parking station near the central shopping mall in Wollongong, lugged my bag to a Hertz office and rented a Mitsubishi 4WD station wagon.
I rang Illawarra Mutual and asked for Carson Lucas, to be told that he’d gone on leave.
‘That’s sudden,’ I said.
‘Is there anyone else who can help you, sir?’
The words, delivered in the meaningless singsong tone some receptionists use, struck me as funny and I laughed.
‘Sir?’
‘Nothing. Thank you.’
I waited and it came. ‘Have a nice day.’
I sat in the comfortable car with the mobile in my hand in a strangely thoughtful mood. There was nobody else who could help me and it seemed somewhat unlikely that I’d have a nice day. With luck, it wouldn’t be too bad. I checked the
