Beyond the Horizon (11 page)

The three men stared at her.

‘From what I could determine, we are outnumbered by at least ten to one,' Saul said. ‘And these are trained soldiers, unlike Abdul-Hamid's rabble, who I suspect will also come after us for the gold we carry. I guess that puts the odds around fifteen to one. We have to return to Jerusalem. I'm afraid we will have to leave Matthew in Turkish captivity.' Saul looked genuinely sorry at this decision.

‘He is your dear friend and he did not hesitate to help you last year,' Joanne said, feeling her body start to shake, as much from anger as from what she had just been through. ‘Haven't you yourself fought against your enemy when the odds were stacked against you, and yet still prevailed?'

Saul frowned and tried to balance the foolishness of love against the reality of their situation. He was bitter that he had lost men who had trusted his command and he felt a great urge to take revenge against the Bedouin who had contravened all the rules of the desert concerning respect and hospitality. It was no wonder that Abdul-Hamid was an outcast among his own kind. ‘He who dares will prevail' had always been Saul's motto, and the last thing the Turks would expect was such a tiny party coming after them.

‘I will only ask my son and Adar to come with us if they wish to volunteer,' Saul said, turning to his son.

‘The rest of the gold I have will be theirs,' Joanne said. ‘To be shared with the families of the men killed on this expedition. I promise you that.'

‘We will do it not for the money but to save my friend and to have revenge on those who killed my men,' Saul replied. Benjamin and Adar nodded in agreement.

Joanne experienced a moment of joy. No matter what the odds, she knew she would win back Matthew's freedom and together they would return home to their children.

The rough and bumpy ride on the camel was far better than remaining in the Bedouin camp, Matthew thought. What he had witnessed last night had been the worst example of man's cruelty towards his fellow man. Matthew had seen the stranger enter the camp with the goat boy and he'd watched with interest as he conversed with Abdul-Hamid outside his tent.

Then suddenly the stranger had been pounced upon by Abdul-Hamid's men, stripped naked and bound. Before his eyes, the stranger was beaten with a whip. Matthew felt great pity for his treatment but was horrified to see the man dragged naked onto a smouldering fire to scream in agony as the hot coals cooked his flesh. Matthew felt himself gag at the pungent smell. His own sense of impotence made the man's cries even harder to bear. Eventually there was silence and Matthew knew the man's suffering was over.

‘Who was that?' Matthew asked Aban as he was passing by.

Aban slinked over to Matthew and said quietly, ‘He was a Jew, the true enemy of my people, and my master has sent him to the fires of hell.'

‘Why was he here?' Matthew pushed, but before Aban could answer there was a stir in the camp as a contingent of camel-mounted Turkish troops rode in. They looked down from their saddles with expressions of disgust and anger at the blackened body still manacled in the campfire, but they spoke civilly with Abdul-Hamid, who pointed at Matthew under the palm tree.

‘I must go,' Aban said nervously and slipped away.

Abdul-Hamid and a Turkish soldier approached Matthew; he could see that the Ottoman was an officer of equivalent rank to himself. The man wore a sword and pistol at his side and was dressed in battle uniform.

‘How are you, old chap?' The Turkish officer asked by way of greeting, and Matthew was stunned to hear the Turk speaking with an Oxford accent.

‘I could be better,' Matthew replied. ‘But after what I witnessed here last night, I have to say I am hoping that the bastard beside you is about to hand me over as a prisoner of war. The longer I remain here, the greater the chance I'll enjoy the same fate as that unfortunate man in the fire.'

‘What has happened here is barbaric,' the officer said. He was a man with clear olive skin and jet-black hair slicked back with oil, and Matthew guessed he was in his late thirties. He had a bushy moustache and was over six feet tall. All in all he made a rather dashing figure.

‘I am Captain Yuzbasi Barak,' the Turk said without offering his hand. ‘I have come to exchange you for a couple of cases of rifles and ammunition. That must be the going price for Australian pilots. I had planned to leave with you tonight, but my Bedouin friend has brought to my attention a plot to free you.'

Matthew gaped at the Turkish officer in disbelief.

‘From what Abdul-Hamid was able to extract from the Jew before he died, the expedition to save you is planned by an American woman, Miss Joanne Barrington, and that Jewish scourge, Saul Rosenblum. But I am afraid your friends are in for a nasty surprise in the morning. However, that won't concern you as we will be leaving at first light and taking you with us. In the meantime, I will appeal to Abdul-Hamid to leave you in my care overnight in case they decide to continue their macabre amusements.'

Matthew was at least thankful that he was now a prisoner of war, rather than an infidel worth only what could be fetched in ransom. He prayed that his old friend Saul had anticipated that things might not go to plan. All their lives depended on it. The mention of Joanne in the rescue party had at first stunned Matthew but now all he could do was worry about her safety. At the same time, he counted the seconds until he could once again look into her eyes and tell her how much he loved her.

Still shackled, Matthew was given shelter under a small tent but still closely guarded by the Turks. All he could think of during the long night was that Joanne and Saul were somewhere out there planning to free him. Worse was the knowledge that a ‘nasty surprise' was coming their way in the morning. Matthew felt utterly helpless.

The next morning Matthew, bleary-eyed with lack of sleep, was shoved towards a camel. He was helped aboard the great beast and when he glanced around he could see that the Bedouin camp was alive with men mounting horses and riding out. Some time during the night many of the Turkish soldiers, including Barak, seemed to have disappeared and he guessed that they had left on a mission. This made him feel uneasy. Only a handful of Turkish soldiers remained.

The order was given and Matthew's small caravan of camels plodded north into the rising heat of the day. It was then that he heard the distant sound of gunfire and the rapid tearing sound of a heavy machine-gun. Matthew hoped that the machine-gun did not belong to the Turks. He did not think so as he had made it a point yesterday evening to try to evaluate the weapons and kit of the Turkish patrol. He had not seen a Maxim and could only conclude the deadly fire was from Saul's forces.

They rode on for half an hour to the base of a hill, where the order to halt was given. Matthew was helped from his camel and he had to stretch to ease his wasted limbs grown weak from lack of exercise. They waited in the shade of the camels, and after another half-hour Matthew could see a rising column of dust. Within minutes exhausted and shocked Turkish troops straggled in. Without understanding what they were saying to each other, Matthew could tell that they were falling back in a retreat as one or two had lost their rifles, and a few were wounded. Barak was among them and he had blood on the sleeve of his khaki uniform.

The Turkish officer assembled his men and gave them orders. It sounded as though Barak was berating his men, who stared at the ground in silence.

Saul has beaten them
, Matthew thought in exhilaration.
You beauty, you old bastard!
At the same time, the thought crept in that Saul's own men may have taken casualties; Saul himself might be hurt or, worse, dead. What if Joanne had been hurt, or worse? He didn't want to think of all the terrible possibilities.

It wasn't until that night, when the military patrol stopped to make camp, that Matthew found out from Barak what had happened.

‘Your rescue party was very good,' Barak said, squatting beside Matthew. ‘They turned the tables on my men.'

‘Did your men inflict casualties on the rescuers?' Matthew asked, not really expecting the Turk to answer.

‘If you are wondering about the American woman, I can reassure you that she was not among those we killed in our attack,' Barak said. ‘You look surprised – yes, I know of Miss Barrington. She is a remarkable woman. Now, no more questions. I can tell you nothing else.'

Barak rose and walked back to his men gathered around a small campfire. Matthew watched him as he strolled away. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the Turkish officer intrigued him.

10

I
nspector Jack Firth feared no man – with the exception of the inspector general of the police force. Jack had been summoned to the man's office and he stood nervously before him, knowing that his summons had to do with the damned Schumann file.

‘Inspector Firth,' the inspector general said in a cold voice, ‘I have been directed by the government to suspend any further enquiries into the matter I raised with you. The Schumann file has been sent to a parliamentary body and what they do with it is up to them. From what I understand, you have been very lucky. I have no doubt that had the investigation continued, you would have found yourself in the dock answering charges of perverting the course of justice – or worse. Someone up there must like you. Count yourself lucky this time, and from now on I don't want to have to see you in my office unless it is to brief me on a solved case. You can consider yourself reprimanded, and it will be noted in your service record.'

George Macintosh had promised to make the problem go away and it appeared that he had done just that. But Jack also knew that this assistance came at a high price. ‘Sir, I can assure you that if you had had the opportunity to examine the file in more detail you would have discovered that I was innocent of any indiscretion –'

‘Don't give me that baloney,' the inspector general cut in. ‘You and I both know that you've cut corners for someone, and if I hear that you are taking any backhanders, I will personally come after you, do I make myself clear?'

‘Yes, sir,' Jack answered dutifully, realising that he should have kept his mouth shut.

‘I will give you credit as having a good record on the force,' the inspector general continued in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Nevertheless, I expect you to have a suspect in the dock over the Mary Jackson murder before the week is out. The newspapers are bleating that we have little concern for dead prostitutes and I expect you to silence their protests.'

‘I have someone in mind for the murder,' Jack answered, feeling more at ease. ‘I hope to have it tied up by tomorrow.'

‘Good.' The inspector general looked down at the scattered papers on his desk. ‘See that you do.' He waved his hand dismissively and Jack left his office as quickly and as quietly as he could.

In the hallway he let out a great sigh of relief. Bloody Macintosh could do just about anything he wanted, Jack reckoned. Even get away with murder.

Jack already suspected that the murdered prostitute's pimp had killed her and he had dragged the man in off the streets to extract a confession. But Lenny Johnson had proved tougher than the average criminal and had resisted the beating delivered by Jack in his office, away from prying eyes. So Jack had dictated a statement to Lenny, which Lenny had then signed, albeit reluctantly. He didn't have any choice really; otherwise he'd find himself swinging at the Darlinghurst gallows. Lenny knew from the trenches that to survive you had to put your own life ahead of others'.

Jack smiled when Lenny was released. He walked down the hall to his office to fetch two of his detectives and line up a couple of uniformed police. It was time to snatch the man who would most definitely hang for the brutal murder of Mary Jackson.

Harry Griffiths had no time to react when the front door of his terrace house was smashed open and a team of uniformed and plain-clothes police tumbled in. At their head was Detective Inspector Jack Firth, his pistol levelled at Harry.

Harry's wife screamed and Harry was glad that his children were at school so as not to be witness to what was happening.

‘Harold Griffiths,' Jack said in a formal voice, ‘we are here to arrest you for the murder of Mary Jackson.'

Harry stood with the newspaper he had been reading in one hand and glared at his old nemesis. ‘You bloody well know that I had nothing to do with that woman's death,' he spat. ‘What is it? Settling old scores? You don't have a leg to stand on, Firth.'

Jack slipped the small pistol into the pocket of his suit, took off his hat and rubbed his brow with the back of his hand.

Harry turned to his wife. ‘Leave us, luv,' he said gently. ‘I'll only be gone a short while.'

His wife hesitated, then left the room, and Harry turned his attention back to Jack. ‘What bloody evidence do you have?'

‘A statement from your old cobber, Lenny, saying that you were seen by him entering the house of Mary Jackson on the day she was last seen alive, and when he saw you come out a short time later you were covered in blood and in a distressed state mumbling that she deserved to die.'

Harry shook his head in disbelief. ‘You made a deal with Lenny, didn't you?' he said. ‘That rubbish won't stand up in court.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Jack replied with a smirk. ‘I can only believe what a witness says to me in his statement. Why would your cobber make up a story about you? Clearly he felt it was his duty to put aside his feelings for you and tell us the truth.'

‘That's almost laughable,' Harry said as two uniformed police stepped forward to grip his elbows, formalising the arrest.

‘Take him away,' Jack said, replacing his hat.

Harry swung around and yelled over his shoulder to his wife in the next room. ‘Get on to Major Duffy straightaway and tell him that I am being taken unlawfully by Jack Firth.'

‘Duffy won't be able to save you from going down,' Firth said cheerfully. ‘His day is coming soon enough, but let's get you hung first.'

Harry felt a chill run through him. Not just for his fate, but for the fate of his friend and employer, Sean Duffy. It was a set-up, and Firth was planning on getting rid of them both.

Mrs Griffiths was almost hysterical as she sat in Sean Duffy's office blurting out the events of the past couple of hours. Sean had sent his clerk to fetch a hot cup of tea for the woman, hoping that it might calm her down.

‘Inspector Firth said that he was arresting Harry for the Mary Jackson murder?' Sean confirmed between the woman's sobs.

‘Yes, Major Duffy,' Harry's wife answered, accepting the cup of tea offered to her by the sympathetic clerk. ‘I heard everything from the next room and I heard Inspector Firth say that my Harry would hang.'

‘I can reassure you, Mrs Griffiths, that your husband will not be hanged. We all know he did not kill the unfortunate woman. I will do everything in heaven and hell to have Harry back with you before too long.'

Mrs Griffiths's crying eased and she took a sip of her tea. She looked up at Sean with a grateful, weak smile. ‘If anyone can save my Harry it's you, Major Duffy,' she said. ‘He worships the ground you walk on.'

Sean shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Leave it with me and go home to the kids.'

Mrs Griffiths rose, shaking Sean's hand with both of her own.

When she was gone, Sean reached for his walking cane and hat. He excused himself from the office and began walking. By the time he had reached police HQ he was sweating, despite the cold day. He didn't think he would ever get used to walking on wooden legs; it was painful and exhausting and only his force of will kept him from giving up and retreating to a wheelchair.

Inside the police building he was forced to wait before he could see his client. Sean had expected this; Firth was not going to make it easy for him. Eventually Sean was shown to the cells, where he found Harry sporting a face blackened and swollen with bruises. Clearly Firth had already carried out an interrogation, Sean thought as Harry came to the bars to greet him.

‘How are you, Harry?' Sean asked and immediately felt stupid for doing so, given the man's physical injuries.

‘That bastard Firth did a number on me, but I signed nothing,' Harry spat, bringing up a glob of blood. The custody officer hovering nearby cautioned Harry about manners but both men ignored him.

‘You have any idea why Firth would pick you up?' Sean asked, gripping the bars for support to ease the pain where his legs connected with the artificial limbs.

‘I suppose we both know that the bastard has it in for us,' Harry replied, wiping the blood from his mouth with his shirtsleeve. ‘He made a threat against you when he picked me up, so I would be watching your back closely, Major Duffy. That bastard Firth has realised that by locking me up he isolates you. He says he has a sworn statement by Lenny Johnson that he saw me coming out of the Mary Jackson house the day she was murdered covered in blood, and saying that she deserved to die.'

‘Don't worry, Harry,' Sean said. ‘If I remember rightly, the day Mary Jackson was killed you were on a job for me on the other side of the harbour. Even Firth must know that Lenny's statement will not stand up in a trial. I don't know why he would attempt such a stupid thing as to frame you for the woman's death.'

‘Maybe, with me inside, he could arrange for you to have an accident,' Harry suggested and Sean took him seriously.

‘I think you could be right,' he said quietly. ‘He must have worked out by now that we had the Schumann file placed in the inspector general's hands, and that would make us very unpopular with him.'

‘Will the police go after him over that?' Harry asked.

Sean shook his head. ‘Sadly, the last thing I heard was that the file had been sent over to Parliament House. I can only guess that George Macintosh pulled a few strings and has had the matter filed away for good. Firth has more lives than a bloody cat.'

‘You have got to make sure that you take every precaution you can, Major Duffy,' Harry said. ‘Lay low until I can get a hearing for bail.'

‘I'll do that,' Sean replied. ‘In the meantime, sign nothing. We will have you free before you can say Jack Robinson.'

‘From anyone else I might have my doubts, but not from you, boss,' Harry said with a feeble smile. ‘Keep your head down and I'll see you soon.'

Sean gripped Harry's hand through the bars and then left the gloomy place to return to the street. He did so with a deeply uneasy feeling; there was more to the matter than Firth settling a personal score. Why was it that the name of George Macintosh kept cropping up at the edges of everything? Why would it be in Macintosh's interests to frame Harry? To get him out of the way – if Firth or Macintosh were really planning to have him killed. But why would Macintosh want him killed? He thought of Giselle and her son and the new terms of Patrick Macintosh's will. George Macintosh was capable of anything, even having a child murdered. And he would benefit by his nephew's death. If this was what he was plotting, Macintosh would know that Sean would be a threat to any such heinous crime. Sean had also had an affair with Louise, and he didn't think Macintosh would take that kindly. Put all these reasons in a pot and stir it and you had a strong motive to have him killed.

Sean paused in his painful walk back to his office. ‘God almighty,' he swore softly. Could Macintosh really be so evil that he would scheme to have his nephew murdered?

The elite Australian Club in Sydney's Macquarie Street had been founded in 1838 by the leading members of colonial society. That George Macintosh had been accepted for membership demonstrated to society that he was a man of worth. Here he rubbed shoulders with the most influential men in finance, politics, law and the public service. It was within these hallowed rooms, with their rich carpets, leather chairs, glass-fronted bookcases, chandeliers and prized art, that George conducted a great deal of his business.

He lounged back in his great leather chair, newspaper on his lap, armed with a Scotch. The gentle clack of billiard balls wafted in from a room nearby, and the smell of expensive cigars filled the air.

‘Another Scotch, sir?' asked a well-dressed waiter.

‘No,' George replied, picking up the paper, and the waiter discreetly disappeared into the background. George opened the paper and his eye was caught by the headline of the morning
Gazette
. A man had been arrested for the murder of Mary Jackson. The article went on to name the legendary Detective Inspector Jack Firth as the man who had arrested Harry Griffiths. Sydneysiders could breathe a sigh of relief that a callous murderer was behind bars.

‘Good show, Firth,' George muttered. With Griffiths off the streets it would be easier to get to the damned lawyer who had had the audacity to sleep with Louise. More importantly, Duffy had to be removed from the picture so that George could dispose of his sister-in-law and nephew. A boating accident was definitely the best way to go with her. It would look like an unfortunate event that was not all that uncommon around Sydney's waterways.

Smiling, George closed the paper and laid it on a small table by his chair. Maybe he would have another drink before returning to the office.

Wallarie was confused. The current dreams of black water did not seem to have any meaning and the ancestor spirits were of no help interpreting them. He sat cross-legged in the shade of the temporary bark shelter he had constructed and poked at the earth with a stick. The sun was low on the horizon as it went to drink at a billabong beyond the plains before it returned in the morning, giving life and heat to this vast country.

Never mind that the ancestor spirits had told him not to go near any whitefellas, Wallarie decided that it was time to visit his old friend, the Lutheran pastor at the Glen View mission. He and Karl von Fellmann would sit under the bumbil tree in the front yard of the station house and ruminate on what the dreams meant. It had been almost a year since he had visited Glen View, and he could argue with the spirits of the ancestors at a later time, Wallarie thought, standing and stretching his limbs to relieve the ache that had lately come to his joints.

Karolina Schumann and Pastor Karl von Fellmann had been guests for dinner at the station house and were leaving in the horse-drawn sulky for the mission station a short distance away. Karolina had been able to catch up with her daughter and grandson, while Karl had talked with the station manager and Angus MacDonald about ordering medicines he needed to treat the Aboriginal people who came to him for help.