I get by, you know, David. And as each day passes that ‘getting by’ gets easier. I still think he’s in the room with me every now and again. And I’ll turn round quickly, but he’ll be gone.”
“Where are the kids?”
“All working now. Julie got a job with a hairdresser about two months ago. She’s happy.”
“You’re looking well.”
“You’re a liar,” she said and tried to laugh. “What do you want, David?”
“I came to see how you were.”
“And what else?”
He smiled and said, “I need to ask you some questions.”
“What about? About Barry?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Her voice was tired.
“Another case that we’re working on.”
“What has that got to do ...?”
“Probably nothing. In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing, but the boss wants it all checked out thoroughly. You know what we’re like.”
“Bastards,” she said softly.
“That too,” Barron admitted. “This case is a murder ...”
She looked at him.
“And one of the people involved mentioned Barry’s name. We’ve got a suspect and have just about wrapped up all the evidence we need. I’m just tying up the loose ends. And ... and I thought that if the loose ends had to be tied up by talking to you, that it was best that I did the talking.”
“A murder? That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Yes. But it covers Federal law.”
She watched him, in silence, for a full minute and then said, “Okay, what do you need to know?”
“Barry was working on a case...”
“In Tasmania?”
“Yes.”
“Did he talk about it much?”
“No more than any other case he was on.”
Barron pulled a small notebook from his pocket and said, “Let me make some notes as we go.”
*******
Barron left an hour later. There was enough in the pages of his notebook to tie things up on any connection with Christie and Doyle and Tasmania. Part of the priors for Christie.
Priors.
Part of Lefroy’s culture. Lefroy had started with the Melbourne office just as they were starting to wrap-up the Cornelius case. An American connection into Thailand, through Singapore and it had been a joint exercise, nicely co-ordinated by the AFP. Lefroy had called the task force together, an hour before they were due to leave for an assault on premises in Albert Park.
“With any case we work on,” he’d said, “there are three components. The first is the incident - or incidents. The scene of the crime, the crime itself, forensic, witnesses. The third is the wrap-up - the way we bring it all together, fitting all the pieces in place, the presentation for the prosecutor.” He’d paused.
Barron remembered that he had everyone’s attention. That was no mean feat in itself, prior to a bust, when tensions were high, and everybody was keyed-up. Tight. Impatient. And he had their attention for two reasons - one, because he was new and they were still trying to suss him out. The second, because he hadn’t yet got to the second component.
“And the second part is the priors. This is the background, the motive, everything that occurred prior to the incident and which contributed to the incident. You don’t have a crime without the priors. The priors are the reasons. With the priors, everything else comes together. The priors explain why it happened and they give the body to the wrap-up. Priors will be a major part - the major part - of your reports. A jury is interested in the priors, because it’s human nature to know the ‘why’.”
Another pause.
“Get the priors right,” Lefroy had said simply.
Priors, Barron thought.
He’d started on Christie’s priors. And with them he could make sure that Christie was nailed.
*******
“The Feds have got Christie.”
Giovanni Sabatini said the five words and lit his cigar. He was a large man, although no one would have called him fat - not to his face, at least. The light grey suit that he wore, and the striped shirt beneath it, fitted him perfectly, tailored finely to fit his large frame. He sat in the large chair and crossed his legs. His black shoes caught the reflections from the lights on the walls. Like the suit they had been made especially for him, but unlike the suit, the shoes had been made in Bangkok. The craftsmanship of the Thais never ceased to amaze him and every trip he took to Thailand saw him return with at least another two pairs of shoes. The overall impression he saw was one of a conservative businessman and his only concession to a little colour was the red and blue bow tie at his throat.
He laid the lighter on the small table alongside the chair and puffed on the cigar, allowing the smoke to gather and swirl in front of his face. His face reflected his sixty years, pale, lined, with some light brown sunspots. The eyes were grey, set deep above puffy cheeks. His hair was black and thin.
“What are we paying this guy for?”
Sabatini looked at his companion through the clearing cigar smoke. Like most of the younger men in the business, he thought, Franco Beltrane, was impatient. This was, Sabatini thought, influenced by two elements - one, merely a reflection of the fast pace at which today’s business ran, and the second was the normal reaction to the slower, traditional pace at which Sabatini’s generation operated. There wasn’t the same respect, or time, for the old traditions, the customs, and the politeness. Sabatini understood how Beltrane felt and when he was gone, then Franco could run it his way. Until then....
“It’s okay, Franco,” Sabatini said. He knew that Beltrane preferred to be called Frank, but old habits died hard. He had been with his father when Franco had been born and it had been the name his father and his mother had wanted for him. “It is under control.”
“I thought it was under control before.”
Beltrane stood next to the older man, a glass of beer in one hand. His other hand swept across the front of his body as he spoke, ending in a clenched fist that, Sabatini surmised, signified the control he thought they had. He was a tall man, nearly six foot, shortly-cropped black curly hair, clean shaven, and bright eyes. His suit was black, tailored for him by a friend in the city, his shirt a brilliant white, open at his neck.
“This was complicated before we got involved. You know that.”
