A Necessary Evil Read online

  About the Book

  A family of cops … a code of honour … a world of corruption … An uncompromising thriller from the acclaimed author of The Time Of The Dragons.

  ‘One, two, three o’clock, four o’clock rock …’ The year was 1956 and the world was in the grip of rock ’n’ roll. Sydney’s youth flocked to the local dance halls and juvenile crime rocketed out of control. Teenage gangs like the Overlords ruled the streets, forcing the NSW Police Commissioner to form 33 Division, an elite group of tough plainclothes cops presided over by none other than George Arthur Everard, feared by the criminal world, and known to all as The Prince of Darlinghurst.

  Within a year the problem was solved and, as a reward, 33 Division was placed in charge of State Gaming and Vice. It was a licence to print money. Corrupted from within, the cops of the ‘Dirty Tree’, as the division became known, ruled the streets and the city and created the biggest crime syndicate Sydney had ever seen.

  A Necessary Evil traces the lives of three generations of policemen, from George the uncompromising grandfather; to Harold, the weak, psychotic father; to Shayne, the new breed of cop. Three men living in the shadows of justice, inextricably bound by blood and the unique code of honour that rules them.

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  BOOK ONE

  EVIDENCE IN CHIEF

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  BOOK TWO

  CROSS-EXAMINATION

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BOOK THREE

  RE-EXAMINATION

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  LOVED THE BOOK?

  For my wife Judy Nunn

  who made me do it,

  because she was a blue heeler

  in a previous life.

  Cops see themselves as heroes.

  Criminals look upon them as bastards.

  Honest citizens regard them from a distance,

  as a necessary evil.

  George Arthur Everard,

  The Prince of Darlinghurst.

  In memory of the late Jimmy Cook,

  Senior Constable.

  BOOK ONE

  EVIDENCE IN CHIEF

  CHAPTER ONE

  One two three o’clock, four o’clock rock

  Five six seven o’clock, eight o’clock rock

  Nine ten eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock rock

  We’re gonna rock around the clock tonight …

  Bill Haley

  Darlinghurst, Sydney. 1956

  Acer Mostyn couldn’t believe his luck. He laughed out loud as he thought of the poofter he’d rolled in the park not thirty minutes before. The old queen had begged not to be hurt and handed over a wallet bulging with five pound notes.

  That’s when Acer had hit him. His fist smashed the old queer’s nose and he dropped like a bucket of shit. Then a good kicking to finish him off.

  He laughed again as he watched his mates swill down the beers he’d shouted.

  ‘Same again thanks, Rosie.’ He handed a pound note to the Madam and picked up on his friend’s conversation. He just loved drinking in whorehouses. Especially Rosie’s—hers was the best.

  ‘… so Jack got the sheila by the hair and told her to bugger off and pushed her into the garbage bins.’

  They all roared with laughter and Acer grabbed the girl to his right by the waist and pulled her to him. She was young, only about eighteen. Her face was covered in powder and rouge, her lips painted bright red. His hand roved to her breast and he saw fear in her eyes as he viciously pinched her nipple through the tight dress. She was terrified of him and he loved it.

  Then he realised she was looking over his shoulder and his mates had stopped laughing. They were shuffling nervously, looking at the floor. He heard a voice behind him. It had a faint Irish lilt to it, but it was deep and cold as a grave.

  ‘Hello, Acer.’

  Acer Mostyn turned and caught a brief glimpse of a police uniform as his world exploded. The huge fist hit him smack between the eyes and he heard his nose cartilage snap. His vision swam and as he bounced off the wall he felt another blow in his midriff. He collapsed in a sea of pain and heard the deep voice boom again.

  ‘You’re under arrest, you useless Irish cunt.’

  Several seconds of silence ensued as Acer Mostyn tried to swallow his fear. He knew who had hit him. He knew the voice and it scared him shitless. A hand grabbed the hair at the back of his head and wrenched him to his feet. His eyes cleared and he was staring into the iron face of George Arthur Everard. Six feet four inches of police sergeant smiled evilly at him from a bullet-like bald head.

  ‘You’re just an oily piece of shit, Acer, aren’t you? I’m sure your girlfriend would agree. Wouldn’t you, darling?’ The young whore nodded nervously. ‘What was that, darling? I didn’t hear you.’

  ‘He’s an oily piece of shit, Mr Everard,’ she whispered.

  ‘Too right he is! And I’m going to put him in the sewer where he belongs. Come along, Acer.’

  The girl trembled as she took in the huge frame of the sergeant. She remembered the first time she ever saw George Everard.

  ‘Suzy!’ Jane yelled in panic. ‘Suzy, help me!’

  Suzy Greaves ran as fast as her ten-year-old legs would carry her. Along the wharf and into the narrow laneways of Woolloomooloo, the screams of her friend Jane Smart ringing in her ears. She had to find someone to save her friend.

  Jane Smart struggled in vain as the Flannery twins held her down on a pile of damp hessian sacks. At thirteen, they were two years older than her and much stronger. Her eyes widened in horror as Jimmy Wilson undid his fly buttons and tugged at her panties. She wasn’t sure what the boys were going to do, but instinct told her it was going to be something terrible. She began to cry and Jimmy Wilson laughed like he was crazy.

  The fist appeared from nowhere, like a thunderbolt. It struck Jimmy on the side of the head and he collapsed, unconscious. Then two huge hands grabbed the Flannery twins and she watched them fly through the air and disappear over the edge of the wharf.

  ‘Now then, young miss,’ she heard a deep, gentle voice say, ‘why don’t we get you home to your Ma, eh?’

  The huge policeman picked her up in his arms and smoothed back the hair from her face.

  ‘What’s your name, missy?’

  ‘Jane Smart.’ It was Suzy who answered. ‘She lives in Palmer Street, Sergeant Everard.’

  ‘All right, Suzy Greaves,’ the sergeant said kindly, ‘you get along home to your Ma as well.’ He rumpled her hair. ‘You were a brave girl, coming to get me to help your friend. I’ll take Jane home. I know where she lives.’ The big policeman smiled at Jane. ‘You’d be Kevin Smart’s youngster then?’

  Jane could only nod as the big man strode down the wharf, still cradling her in his arms. She could hear the Flannery twins splashing their way underneath the pier, but her eyes were locked to the smiling face of her rescuer.

  All the way up Palmer Street, he sang to her. Pretty, soft Irish songs like the ones her Ma sang when she was out in
the washhouse on Saturday mornings. When they arrived at her house and he tried to put her on the couch, she clung to his neck, not wanting to leave the safety of his arms.

  Finally her Ma had taken her up to bed and Jane had stared at the ceiling, the vision of the huge policeman’s face swimming before her eyes until she slept.

  The next morning she was the talk of the ’Loo—as the old Sydney suburb was affectionately known. All the women from up and down the street were gathered outside her Ma’s house discussing the previous night’s ‘goings-on’. Mrs Flannery had arrived and apologised for the behaviour of her twins and told all present that she’d had a visit from the Prince of Darlinghurst himself.

  Several of the ladies had oohed and aahed at the mention of Sergeant Everard’s name and even Jane’s Ma had rubbed her thighs in a lewd manner and joined in the joke, saying that Mister Everard could place his boots under her bed any night he chose.

  The Prince had become Jane’s fantasy. As she passed through puberty, her dreams, both sleeping and waking, had centred around the big sergeant. He became her knight in shining armour, rescuing her from all sorts of demons and inevitably, he would take her virginity, sending her into swoons of delight.

  As Jane grew older, her dreams became more and more vivid. Everard would take her violently after a passionate seduction scene in which she gave herself up to the brute strength of the man. Jane forced herself back to the present. She felt herself blushing and for one foolish moment believed that everyone in the brothel was aware of her thoughts.

  Acer Mostyn’s feet were way ahead of his thoughts. They took off for the door. There was nothing he could do about it. He bounced into the street and fell against a car.

  ‘You can’t lay down yet, boyo, it’s half a mile to the station and I’m just getting warmed up.’

  The hands grabbed at him again. Acer was thrown ten feet along the footpath. He knew what he was in for. He was frightened. He started to urinate. It was his own fault. He’d been warned twice by other coppers that the sergeant was sick of him. He struggled to his feet and the huge fist hit him again. Bang! His ears started to ring and his knees went weak. Jesus, don’t fall, he told himself as huge hands pushed him up the street. Run! Run!

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he heard the voice say. ‘I’ll run you down like a fucking dog. I warned you, Acer. I sent the lads to tell you I was sick of you operating on my patch, but you wouldn’t listen. Well now it’s time to pay, laddie, and pay you will!’

  And that’s how it went all the way up Bourke Street to the Police Station and through the doors to the Charge Room counter.

  The crash of the doors made Constable Campbell jump. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Campbell was about to say more when he saw his sergeant follow Acer Mostyn’s body into the foyer. He knew better than to speak in Everard’s presence unless he was asked a direct question. He looked at the inert form lying whimpering on the Charge Room floor. Jesus Christ, he thought, Acer’s blood from arsehole to breakfast time.

  Sergeant Everard picked up Mostyn like a rag doll and held him against the counter. ‘Listen carefully, Acer. Constable Campbell is going to put you through the charge book for Robbery Occasioning Grievous Bodily Harm. Do you understand?’ Mostyn could only nod. ‘You will appear before the beak tomorrow morning at ten o’clock and plead guilty as charged. Am I right?’ Another nod. ‘You will go to prison and when you are released you will go to live in Western Australia. Are we clear about that?’ A muffled yes through bloodied lips. ‘If you ever come into my patch again, I’ll beat you senseless and throw you into Sydney Harbour, where you will drown.’

  The huge man turned to walk off, then, struck by a thought he turned back. He reached out and grabbed Acer’s nipple with his thumb and forefinger. ‘By the way, Acer, in case you were wondering, this is what it feels like to be a whore.’

  Everard squeezed and then twisted the nipple. Acer screamed with pain. ‘Campbell!’ Sergeant Everard roared as he strode off down the corridor, ‘lock the prisoner up!’

  Detective Superintendent Joseph Hartford sat in George Everard’s office and wondered why all police station interiors were painted green and grey. Ever since he could remember they’d been green and grey. And not even a nice green, a sick pale green, the colour of vomit. Oh, well, he thought, maybe it was appropriate. Green and grey. The colours of vomit and death.

  His eyes strayed to several framed pictures hanging on the wall behind the desk. One was of a group of men in police uniform with the caption ‘Police Training School, Class 7 of 1926’. He was looking at himself as a young man and beside him stood George Everard. Christ alive, he thought, was I ever that young? Thirty years had come and gone. It seemed like yesterday that he’d posed for that photograph.

  Another photo caught his eye. It was of George and his wife Maude and their six kids. Must have been a birthday or something similar. Fucking Irish Catholics. He smiled at his own pun. Memories of times on the beat with George flooded back, along with decades of barbecues and family get-togethers. He suddenly knew he’d made the right decision. George was the hardest man he’d ever met. What was it his old man used to say? Straight as a gun-barrel and white as a hound’s tooth.

  Everard walked into the office. ‘Hello, Joe. What brings the Chief of Detectives to a dump like this at such an ungodly hour of the morning?’

  ‘George.’

  Hartford stood and the two men shook hands with a warm familiarity.

  Everard sat down at his desk and wiped blood off his knuckles with a handkerchief.

  Joe Hartford watched him. ‘Been spilling the claret, George?’

  ‘It’s not mine, boss. The only people who get mine are the Red Cross.’ George looked up and their eyes met. ‘For you to be here at two in the morning means I’m in the shit, right?’

  ‘On the contrary, you might well be out of it.’ Hartford sat down heavily. ‘I’ve been to dinner with the Commissioner. He’s got a problem and I convinced him you’re the man to solve it.’

  ‘The Commissioner.’ Everard leaned back in his chair and smoothed his hands across his shaved scalp. ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Inspectorate rank and your own division.’

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Everard sat up abruptly. ‘What do I have to do? Kill the Pope?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘Come on, Joe, everyone knows the Freemasons run the Force. You’re one yourself, for Christ’s sake. If the Commissioner’s prepared to promote a Catholic to Inspector, even a lapsed one like me, he must have one hell of a problem! Am I right, or am I wrong?’

  ‘For once the Catholics and the Protestants are in agreement on something, George ….’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Everard scoffed derisively. ‘Immortality of the soul! Am I correct? Providing, of course, you do as the priests say while you’re still mortal and hand over as much money as you can lay your hands on to the fucking church.’

  ‘Shut up and listen!’ Hartford snapped. He got up and began to pace the small office. ‘It’s kids, George. Teenage kids. Have you noticed how many of them are out late at night these days? In their hundreds. Going to dances, driving hot rods, and fucking like rabbits.’

  ‘So what?’ Everard shrugged. ‘It’s no different than in our day. Well, apart from the hot rods—but we certainly danced and I remember at least one girl who wasn’t backward in coming forward.’

  ‘It is different! In our day we had respect for our parents. Families stuck together. You got a job, met a girl and married. Things were controlled. There was order. What have we got now? Kids leaving home, not listening to their parents, living in sin. Breaking all the rules and conventions. Have you listened to the radio lately?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘Everything! It’s the music, George. Rock and Roll! It’s the music of the devil!’

  George laughed and shook his head. ‘You’re sounding like a fucking priest.’

  ‘The priests are saying it too,�
�� Hartford continued. ‘Not just here, but in America and England. Parents are losing control.’

  ‘You mean the churches are losing control and they don’t like it. That’s how they survive. Control of the masses, if you’ll pardon the pun, boss.’

  ‘No more jokes!’ Hartford raised a warning finger. ‘You listen carefully, George. I stuck my neck out for you. I told the Commissioner that you were the man to clean up the streets. To re-assert authority over the street gangs. They’re out of control.’ Hartford returned to his chair and looked intently across the desk. ‘Bodgies and widgies, they’re calling themselves. Crime rates have escalated all over the city. It’s getting so decent people can’t walk along the streets in safety. The Premier is being harassed by the churches. He wants action. The Minister for Police is in the same boat. They’ve both stuck it up the Commissioner, who in turn has stuck it up me!’

  ‘And you’re sticking it up me?’

  ‘Too fucking right I am.’

  ‘What’s the deal?’

  ‘Your own division, no boundaries. Immediate and permanent promotion to Inspector. You can pick your own men. You get your own station, vehicles, anything you want. Just give us results.’

  George Everard stood and leaned forward with his hands palm-down on the desk. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with excitement. ‘You’re talking about the chance to play cowboys and Indians.’

  ‘If that’s what it takes.’ Hartford wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

  George looked him in the eye. ‘No rules or regulations, no responsibility. Open slather. No uniforms. Unmarked cars. Fists, feet and teeth. Boots and all. No arrests, just results.’