Bitter Wash Road Page 32

‘I asked Bernie Love to present it.’

  Love was the publican of the Woolman Hotel. He’d offered to hold the protest meeting in his function room—so he could keep the bar open, according to the local wags, but Hirsch suspected he wanted to stick it to the Redruth police, whom he blamed for keeping patrons away from his door. Either way, he’d been refused in favour of the town hall.

  ‘I guess I shouldn’t sit with you,’ Hirsch said.

  Wendy rubbed his leg. ‘Best not.’

  ‘Look, the whole thing could be a fizzer.’

  Wendy folded her arms. ‘Not if I can help it.’

  ~ * ~

  The Adelaide press put the attendance at 500. Significant, given that the population of Redruth was 1300 and the greater area 3500. Standing room only, and Hirsch found himself propping up a side wall, on his left a primary-school teacher, on his right the elderly neighbour of the woman who’d fallen through her back door on grand final night.

  ‘Hear you got yourself shot,’ the old man said.

  People up and down the district were making that mistake. ‘Almost shot,’ Hirsch said. ‘How’s Crystal?’

  ‘She died.’

  Hirsch felt crushed. He should have checked on her.

  The old man touched his sleeve. ‘Not because of the fall. She was out of hospital in no time. Just old age.’

  Hirsch surveyed the rows of cheap metal chairs, the heads neat and ragged, the summery shirts and worn, comfortable bodies. A few young people, but most were aged between thirty and sixty. A media presence at the back: TV cameras, and a range of metropolitan and national newspaper reporters. The hall itself was a carbon copy of Tiverton’s: wooden floors, pressed-tin ceiling, some fancy plaster work, a stage at the far end. In front of the stage and facing the audience were four unoccupied chairs set at a couple of trestle tables.

  ‘Do you need a seat?’ asked Hirsch.

  ‘Got my walking stick,’ the old man said.

  Presently Kropp and his wife came threading through to the row of reserved chairs at the front of the room, the sergeant grinning and shaking hands left and right. No one greeted his wife, and Hirsch wondered how she felt. Invisible, maybe.

  There were no grins and handshakes when Nicholson and Andrewartha appeared. ‘Who’s the woman with Nicholson?’

  ‘His wife.’

  Hirsch grunted. Did she know about the girlfriend? ‘And with Andrewartha?’

  ‘Wife.’

  Two burly men and their burly wives, they pushed through to the front with jutting chests and chins, and sat, solid and aggrieved, the men in uniforms so tight, their upper bodies so beefy, they couldn’t fold their arms properly. Hirsch glanced about for Wendy, finally spotting her on the far side, watching him from the end chair of a row a third of the way back. She rolled her eyes: that took you long enough, grinned and turned to the front again.

  The room was rowdy but fell silent when four men emerged through a side door and sat at the trestle tables. Two were senior policemen in full uniform: Cremen, the new area commander, and Wright, an assistant commissioner from headquarters in Adelaide. A third man wore a suit but had the hard, guarded look of a policeman. IIB, guessed Hirsch.

  The fourth man stood as soon as he’d sat. He was sun-creased, diffident, wearing a sports coat over an open-necked white shirt. His big hands mangled each other as he spoke. ‘I’m Des McEwan, CEO of the regional council. I’ve been asked to chair tonight’s meeting.’

  And not taking much pleasure in it, thought Hirsch.

  McEwan introduced Cremen and Wright but not the stony-faced man wearing the suit, then drew a breath. ‘To begin: almost six hundred people signed a petition which said, quote, The law in Redruth is being administered in a harsh and uncompromising manner, and so here we are.’

  The audience stirred, muttered, squeaked about on the cheap seats.

  McEwan added hastily, ‘We don’t want a witch-hunt or a show trial or an opportunity to get even with anyone. We don’t want rumour and innuendo. But six hundred signatures is significant, and tonight is your opportunity to air your concerns in a fair and reasonable manner.’

  Told to push the fair and reasonable line, thought Hirsch. He waited, arms folded, for the floodgates to open. But the audience, although restive, kept their hands in their laps. Nervous? Self-conscious? Intimidated by the men at the trestle tables? Afraid that Kropp, Nicholson and Andrewartha had eyes in the backs of their heads?

  Finally a hairdresser from the Redruth salon waved her arm.

  ‘Yes, Sylvia.’

  She stood, middle-aged, awkward, shoulders hunched. ‘I work right on the square and every day I see what it’s like for anyone unlucky enough to cross paths with the police. I really feel for our old people, getting shouted at in such a rude, arrogant...Well, it’s demeaning. Sometimes it’s downright frightening.’

  ‘Too right,’ murmured the old man at Hirsch’s elbow.

  Bernie Love made his way to the front of the room. The publican was a glossy, grinning man with a hard mercantile core. About sixty, he wore a black silk shirt and new-looking jeans.

  ‘You know me, I run the Woolman. Simply put, patronage is down thirty per cent because of these bozos.’ He gestured at Kropp, Nicholson and Andrewartha. ‘Intimidation’s what it is. Patrol car parked outside the main entrance so no one wants to come in. Or they come into the bar and just stand there, giving everyone the evil eye. It’s a bloody disgrace.’

  He glared around to make his point, then returned to his chair. Raelene Skinner, owner of the motel, took his place. She was hunched over, squeaky with nerves, reading from a sheet of paper. ‘People think of Redruth as a wheat and wool town, but it’s also a tourist town. Except the tourists aren’t coming, or they’re not staying, because the police are always breath-testing people or setting speed traps outside the motel. I used to employ eight people; now I’m down to two.’

  She scurried back to her chair. The supermarket manager bobbed up, said rapidly that no one shopped in Redruth anymore, and sat again. Then silence, then a couple of other people had their say, one tongue-tied, the other blustering but vague.

  Hirsch watched the superintendent, the assistant commissioner. They were less remote now, full of little nods and headshakes, taking pains not to look at Kropp, Nicholson and Andrewartha. You could almost hear them tut-tutting, oh-dearing. It was meant to be reassuring, and Hirsch rated it as a solid professional performance.

  Then he thought: they’re relieved. The townspeople—awkward, decent, well-mannered—were simply reporting a few instances of over-enthusiastic policing. Nothing serious. No criminal acts. A bit of tea and sympathy and we can all go home. And thank God for that, after the Spurling business.

  He looked for Wendy. He couldn’t see her. Should he say something?

  Des McEwan cocked his head at the crowd. ‘Anyone else? No? Perhaps—’

  The assistant commissioner stood. ‘Perhaps Sergeant Kropp might be invited to respond?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ babbled McEwan.

  Kropp rose massively, turned to face the audience. His gaze raked the room, steady, reasonable, fair.

  ‘The police motto,’ he said, ‘is leading the way to a safer community, so we make no apology for reducing the road toll through random breath tests and speed detection.’

  He was about to go on but a couple of hear hears went around the room and a man stepped away from a huddle of men on the opposite wall. He stared at the chairman, who said, ‘I invite Eric Dawe of the State Emergency Service to say a few words.’

  ‘I’m a hundred per cent behind Sergeant Kropp,’ Dawe announced. ‘Who gets called out when some tanked-up idiot runs head-on into a tree or worse still, another car? Me and my men. We’re sick of it. It’s heartbreaking.’

  People muttered. A woman stood. ‘I know this makes me unpopular, but in the midst of his own troubles, Sergeant Kropp got my son off drugs and into football.’ She shut her mouth with a click
and sat. Kropp, embarrassed, returned to his seat.

  ‘What troubles?’ murmured Hirsch as a hum of comment rose from the audience.

  The teacher at his elbow said, ‘His kiddie was run over and killed a few years ago. Only three years old.’

  Oh fuck, thought Hirsch. Meanwhile arguments ranged about the room, people craning around in their seats, saying, ‘Yeah, but...’ and ‘On the other hand...’ Perhaps sensing that he’d lost the advantage, Bernie Love strode onto the cleared area in front of the trestle tables and bellowed, ‘Oy!’

  He waved a sheet of paper above his head. The noise abated.

  ‘Before we start passing out sainthoods,’ he shouted, ‘I’d like to move a motion.’

  McEwan checked with the assistant commissioner, who shrugged guardedly. ‘Go on, Mr Love,’ McEwan said.

  Love thumbed a pair of glasses onto his nose and read:

  I move that the residents of Redruth and its surrounds have lost confidence in the policing abilities of Sergeant Kropp and Constables Nicholson and Andrewartha, and that they be replaced with officers respected, knowledgeable and experienced in community policing.‘

  Cremen jumped to his feet. ‘May I suggest an amendment?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ McEwan said.

  ‘That a police investigation be allowed to run its course before the issue of no confidence is considered, and that this meeting elect a committee to hear community complaints and liaise directly with the investigators.’

  The assistant commissioner joined him. ‘That way no one need feel intimidated. Have faith in us to do the right thing. The formal complaints investigation process really does work.’

  Before Love could object, McEwan said, ‘Shall we vote?’

  Hirsch watched and waited. He didn’t vote. 175 voted for the amended motion, 136 against.

  ~ * ~

  Jesus. That went off like a damp squib, Hirsch thought despondently, watching people shift in their seats, grab their handbags, stand ready to leave. He still couldn’t see Wendy. He pushed away from the wall, anticipating her disappointment.

  A ripple passed through the room.

  Wendy walked onto the stage and stood in a commanding position, looking down on the men at the table, the shuffling audience and clanging chairs. Beside her stood a girl, barely mid-teens, holding a baby. They waited. A gradual calm settled.

  McEwan, following the direction of the stares, turned around. ‘Mrs Street?’

  Wendy ignored him. She gestured to the wings. Bob Muir emerged, crossing the stage in his unhurried way, nodding to the men and women he recognised. He was accompanied by Nathan Donovan, who looked terrified.

  ‘What’s this?’ shouted Nicholson.

  ‘Mrs Street?’ said McEwan. ‘We’ve passed a motion.’

  ‘We’ve passed a motion to investigate a bit of over-enthusiastic policing,’ Wendy said. ‘I’d like to move a new motion.’

  ‘You can’t,’ Nicholson yelled.

  Wendy glared at McEwan. ‘Mr Chairman, have you formally declared the meeting over?’

  ‘Well, no, we still have to form a committee, but—’

  ‘But not everyone’s had their say. I’d like to introduce Cristobel and Nathan. They have experiences they’d like to share.’

  The girl was tremblingly brave. She gestured with the baby. ‘This is Travis. I’m not sure who his dad is. Him,’ she said, pointing, ‘or him. They done me one after the other.’

  Nicholson, Andrewartha, both men sinking in their seats. Nicholson’s wife stood, bulldozed her way out of the hall. Andrewartha’s wife seemed unsure what to do.

  ‘She was fourteen at the time,’ Wendy said.

  ‘If you don’t believe me,’ the girl spoke clearly in the hush, ‘DNA’ll prove it.’ She turned to Nathan. ‘Your turn.’

  Nathan hunched his shoulders, frozen in place. Muir touched his elbow. The boy swallowed visibly and walked to the edge of the stage. He pointed, his voice strained: ‘Them two pricks have taken me out east and bashed me up. Left me to walk home. Done it like, every coupla months.’

  He stepped back out of the limelight.

  Wendy gave him a smile of great warmth, then gazed out over the room again. ‘And so you can see, Mr Chairman, why we need to consider a new motion.’

  ~ * ~

  37

  HIRSCH RETURNED FROM patrol on the Monday to find Kropp waiting for him. He appeared to be dozing behind the wheel of a Redruth patrol car. Head tilted back, eyes closed, hands in his lap.

  But he was quick to sense Hirsch. In a couple of economical motions he was out and onto the footpath as Hirsch’s key slid into the lock. ‘Sarge,’ said Hirsch, one arm out to hold the front door ajar, giving the sergeant plenty of room.

  ‘Constable.’

  Hirsch opened the connecting door to his private quarters, again making space for Kropp, as if the pair of them might explode into violence if sleeve brushed sleeve. Kropp shook his head. ‘Your office will do.’

  He took the plain wooden chair. Hirsch, a little tense now, swung into the swivel chair behind his desk. He didn’t feel intimidated or deferential. He felt...what, exactly?

  More victims had come forward at the protest meeting. No one raised any real accusation against Kropp himself, but they made it apparent that he had lost control, letting his men run his patch as if it was their personal playground and he the ineffectual principal. A dinosaur who’d forgotten who he was supposed to be and what he was supposed to do. Had he been complicit? Blind, certainly; and people had stories about verbal abuse. But he wasn’t bad in the way Spurling was bad. He’d sensed something about Logan and Coulter. And plenty of people had stood up for him.

  Hirsch would reserve judgment.

  Kropp folded his arms. ‘You could have called me the day those pricks tried to kill you,’ he said. ‘I’d have done the right thing.’

  ‘Sarge,’ Hirsch said. There was no way he would have called the man. Kropp would have been compromised, or he’d have believed Spurling and the Latimers. And if Nicholson and Andrewartha had come along for the ride, it might have proved fatal.

  Kropp saw the story in Hirsch’s eyes. He slumped and shook his head, all elasticity vanished. He drew one huge dry palm down over his face, trying to rub something out. ‘What a fucking mess.’

  Dying to know the score, Hirsch asked, ‘What’s the new super going to do?’

  ‘The boys are going down, I know that much.’

  Boys. As if Nicholson and Andrewartha were unruly kids, not serial rapists. ‘Going down how, Sarge?’

  Kropp looked fully at Hirsch. ‘If the bashings and sexual assaults can be verified, they’re looking at jail time.’

  ‘And you, Sarge?’

  ‘Remains to be seen. Asked to resign? Disciplinary hearing and busted to Traffic?’

  ‘When?’

  Kropp shrugged bitterly. ‘No idea. All I know is I’m on leave, starting tomorrow.’

  ‘With pay?’

  ‘Fuck you.’ Kropp shook his head. ‘Took my eye off the ball.’ As if it was a game, being a cop. ‘My officers let me down.’

  Hirsch had had enough. ‘You allowed them to.’

  A flash of the old quick surging power, Kropp snarling, ‘You going to lecture me about my conduct?’

  Hirsch tensed and said nothing.

  ‘Your girlfriend got what she wanted. Put-the-boot-into-your-local-copper.’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake. There were plenty of formal and informal complaints long before I arrived in the district. All my “girlfriend” did was get people off their arses.’

  Kropp snorted. ‘Yeah, right. Didn’t get any pointers from the kind of cop who dobs in his colleagues.’

  ‘Go to hell,’ Hirsch said. ‘They stitched me up. They threatened my parents. They frightened my mother and father, worthless fucking cowards that they are.’

  ‘You do not drop another police member in the shit,’ Kropp said, stick
ing his bulky jaw out.

  ‘If not me, who, then?’ Hirsch demanded. ‘We let murdering, raping, racist cops get away with it?’ He stared at Kropp, daring him.

  Kropp stared back. ‘What did I ever do to you?’

  ‘You did it to yourself. You know I was asked to spy on you? I didn’t.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘You did it to yourself. They have files full of complaints, going back years. Internal Investigations, even Spurling kept a few.’

  ‘You spied on me.’