De Witt told me that MacPherson was a veteran of the 1991Gulf War and had been a member of an outlaw bikie gang for a few years after that. Then he’d done a business degree at Wollongong University and had a few jobs in the insurance business before his last position with Illawarra Mutual.
‘That job was most likely a cover. MacPherson was almost certainly still involved in drugs. Had too much money for it to be otherwise.’
‘You mentioned vice and corruption.’
‘No, you did. But they all go together. The pros down here are almost all addicts. So are some of the 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.’
106
‘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 Gregory’s and tried to familiarise myself with the area south of Wollongong where I’d never been. The steelworks dominated the map and Lake Illawarra, a pinpoint on a small-scale map, almost filled a page of the directory. The NRMA accommodation guide, another essential accessory, showed that the area wasn’t well off for motels, but one at Warrawong seemed like the closest to where I was headed, had the necessary facilities, and wouldn’t make Dr Farmer have to apply for promotion.
I drove to the motel, checked in, bought a hamburger nearby and ate it with a can of beer from the mini-bar. Two cans of beer. Then I poured boiling water on two of the Nescafe coffee sachets, producing a strong cup. I drank two cups while I scribbled notes on my day’s work, connected up names and places and snippets of information with arrows and dotted lines and peppered the whole diagram with question marks. I have a collection of these diagrams going back many years and I don’t know what good they do, if any. But I still make them.
Port Kembla and parts south aren’t well lit at night and I frequently had to consult the directory by torchlight to make sure I was keeping in the right direction. It took a while with quite a few false turns and dead ends, but eventually I located the bikies’ sacred site-a large area that looked like a dried-up lake bed or perhaps a filled-in quarry. I got there more by tracking sight and sound than anything else. The area was a couple of hectares all told and a figure eight dirt track had been graded into existence and confirmed over time by thousands of spinning, skidding wheels. The track was lit by the headlights of twenty or more 4WDs parked at intervals. Riding around that surface in company with others, taking the scarcely banked bends at speed and coming in and out of shadows seemed to me like a good way to break something, from an ankle to a neck.
When I arrived a dozen bikes were in action. They were roaring, and there were at least fifty more lined up ready to roar. There was more leather and denim and greasy hair than at the Altamont Speedway in 1969, and a good scattering of what De Witt called civilians as well. Some long hairs, some baldies, some boozers, some pot heads. I was in my jeans and flannie and, having a heavy beard, I had a strong stubble sprouting. I also had a plastic-looped six pack. I got out of the car and began to wander around, swigging from a can and trying not to stumble over the discarded cans and bottles or slip on the oil slicks. There was no security that I could see. Again, De Witt seemed to have got it right. This was a no-go zone for the forces of law and order and respectability.
Within half an hour I was approached four times: twice by buyers and twice by sellers. I fended them off until I decided my presence would look suspicious. The fifth approach was from a man in leather pants, high-laced hiking boots and an Afghan jacket that looked to date back to the time when people wore Afghan jackets.
‘Lookin’ for something, dude?’ he said in an accent that might’ve been American. I had to lean down closer to hear him over the revving of the bikes.
‘Could be.’ I detached a can from the loop and handed it to him.
‘Thanks. Pills, pot or pussy?’
I laughed and he took me by the arm and led me to a shadowy spot behind an ancient Land Cruiser whose headlights were dimming.
‘What the fuck’re you doing here?’ he hissed.
‘What?’
‘You’re a cop. It sticks out like dog’s balls.’
‘Don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘You’re in the way. Sorry, but I’ve gotta do this.’
He raised his can as if to drink from it and that’s the last movement I registered. What followed was a blur and a bump and the loud, flickering, petrol-smelling scene slipped away from me as I went down a long slope into a quiet, dark place.