by Garry Disher
When he felt strong enough to move, he eased onto the ground and around to the rear doors of the van. He looked in. One of the PVC cylinders was missing. Wyatt supposed that that made sense, if you were Raymond. The cylinders were long and awkward. Youd be able to carry one on foot on a suburban street, not four. And you would take one; you wouldnt leave it and save your skin.
There was a water tap against the back wall of the service station. Wyatt washed away the blood, stripped off his overalls, put the cap over his injured skull and walked to the nearest set of traffic lights. A cruising cab picked him up. He gave the address of his motel in Preston.
Some procedures were automatic for Wyatt. He paid off the driver two blocks from the motel, then walked past the place a couple of times, on the opposite side of the street. Finally he crossed to the motel and followed the path around the car park to his room. He stood for a while, watching. He wondered if theyd be waiting for him.
At that moment a cleaner appeared around the corner, pushing a cart crammed with brooms, buckets and plastic bottles. A small transistor radio swung by its strap on the chrome handle. Wyatt changed direction until he was a metre away from her and murmured, Im checking out of fourteen. The rooms clear, if you want to start there.
She peered doubtfully at the first door in the row. He saw that she liked routine. You started at the end and worked your way along. But the first door and two others wore Dont Disturb signs, so the pattern was broken anyway. No skin off my nose.
Thanks.
Wyatt walked away. He stationed himself behind a potted ornamental tree near the pump shed of the motels swimming pool and watched the cleaner. She inserted the key in the lock, swung open the door to his room, pushed the cart in. Nothing. No surprises or shouts or backpedalling feet.
It took her ten minutes, and when she was done and in the next room, Wyatt went in. He moved carefully, stationing a chair under the bathroom ceiling fan, climbing onto it in stages, and taking his time to unscrew the fan. No sudden movements. He had a few hundred dollars there, a new set of papers.
Wyatt put an end to his hard, unravelling morning with a shower. He should have run, but just then he was too bone-weary, too dazed, too swamped by scalding, comforting water to care.
He towelled himself dry at the window, looking out onto the courtyard, keeping his movements slow, containing the pain. He blinked away the water from his eyelashes. It was Liz Redding, standing perfectly still and contemplative in the weird green light of the swimming pool awning, watching his room, watching his shape in the window. When he blinked again, shed turned away and the last he saw of her was the long slope of her back and the tilt of her hips as she bent to fit a key into the lock of a small white Corolla. But it was the wrong key. She straightened to examine the others on the keyring. Wyatt thought there was time. This didnt have to be the last that he saw of her.
* * * *
Thirty-one
Raymonds hand was sticky. He looked down: blood gouts, from when hed smacked Wyatt in the head with the butt of his Ruger. Shifting casually, leaning forward and down as if to scratch his leg, he wiped his fingers on his sock, hoping the driver hadnt noticed the blood or the concealment. He straightened again, looked over into the back seat. Red palm prints on the PVC cylinder. Raymond drew in a ragged breath, whistled to calm his nerves.
They stopped at a light. The cab driver punched a thick finger at the keys of his dispatch screen, cursing softly. Hate this fucking thing.
Raymond grunted.
A message came up. The driver peered at it. Call Mr Atkins at Thomastown Legal Aid? Christ in hell, whats she done now?
Raymond figured that the cab driver was not so likely to remember him or smeared blood if he had troubles of his own. Whats the problem?
The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror. He was late for the green light and had been tooted from behind. Up yours, arsehole, he said, giving the finger to the other driver. The cab streaked away across the intersection. The daughter, he explained. She wags school, goes shoplifting with a gang. Both hands lifted from the wheel, slammed down again in a gesture of hopelessness. I mean, what can you do? They dont teach them anything at school any more. You try to do the right thing at home, teach them whats right and wrong, and some pinko prick from the teachers college undoes it all or they get in with some gang and skip school. I blame the drugs myself. The economy. Who cares about the family, these days? Its dog eat dog out there.
Raymond wanted to say, Back up a step, youve lost me, but mention of family and school gangs and shoplifting reminded him of his own high school years, reminded him of Wyatt, of Wyatt not being around for him. He wet the index finger of his left hand, rubbed where Wyatts blood clung stubbornly to the palm and wrist of his right hand. He couldnt understand why he hadnt popped the bastard. Pow, centre of the fucking head.
Raymond didnt want to think that he wasnt up to it a second time.
Whats in the tube?
Raymond stiffened. What?
The driver jerked his head toward the back seat. You got plans there? You know, blueprints?
Raymond coughed. Got it in one.
What, you a builder?
Work for one, Raymond said.
Inside he was screaming, Come on, come on, get me home.
Where hed shower, put on good clean daks, phone Chaffey with the news that Wyatt had fucked up.
You wouldnt like to run an eye over my place? House needs restumping, salt damp coming up the chimney, thinking of putting in one of them pergolas out the back.
Raymond squeezed his eyes shut. His head ached. He saw the endless blighted suburbs, populated by blokes like this driver, their wives and kids, from cradle to grave worried about money. That wasnt his career path, no way known. He opened his eyes. Sorry. We specialise in shithouses for government schools.
Fair enough, the cab driver said. Just thought Id ask, you never know.
They lapsed into silence. Raymond watched the city skyline fill the windscreen as they trundled along Nicholson and down into streets that saw little of the sun. On the other side of the city the driver said, Youll have to guide me. Southbanks changing that quickly, I cant keep up.
Raymond paid him off outside the ABC studios, then cut through a side street to his apartment building.
Upstairs he sponged away the blood from the cylinder then stood for ten minutes in a lacerating stream of hot water in his bathroom. It occurred to him then that he was stupid, coming back to the flat. He threw on some clothes, packed a bag and took the stairwell down to the car park beneath the building.
When he was on the move again, well clear of the concrete bunker, aiming the Jag for the south-eastern freeway, he dialled Chaffey on his car phone.
Chafe? Guess who? he said, when Chaffey answered.
Chaffey was quick. He didnt use Raymonds name. Why are you calling?
We have a problem.
A pause. Our mutual friend?
Raymonds brow furrowed. Pardon?
Your work colleague, said Chaffey heavily.
Oh, right, Im with you now, Raymond said. Hes . . . got a sore head.
The agitation was clear in Chaffeys voice. Permanent?
Wish it was, Raymond said.
Chaffey left that alone. So the deal fell through?
Raymond tried to think how to put this. We got about a third of what we budgeted for.
A third? All or nothing, that was the understanding. Otherwise the contract is null and void.
Raymond swallowed. Just lately hed been subject to panic attacks, swamping out of nowhere, making his heart race, his mouth go dry. He related the attacks to his obsession with the treasure, his anxiety about missing out. The attacks had been worse since the shooting in Warrandyte. He said to Chaffey, trying to control the hysteria in his voice:
Chafe, I successfully completed part of the job and I deserve part payment. Not my fault our mutual friend dipped out.
You say he dipped out, he decided it was a no goer?
Chaffey was clipped and certain. One, he must have had a good reason. Two, a third of the goods is no good to me. No payment. Nothing. Zero. Three, Ive been trying to contact you all week. The goods from that other deal failed to arrive in New Zealand. Id like to know why. He paused. Theres a knock on the door. Call me in a couple of days.
The line went dead.
That didnt stop Raymond. He drove on, thinking about the cash in Chaffeys house: his lawyers fortune, the payment for the paintings, the money he kept stashed there for the crooks he represented. Chaffey and Wyatt were probably similar in that way, never spent on the here and now, always had a stash hidden away somewhere.
* * * *
Thirty-two
I liked you better when you had a head of hair.
Itll grow back.
Her fingers explored his scalp. Nasty gash he gave you.
Wyatt swayed a little, let her change the dressing. It was the next morning and he felt clean and calm. He was fully dressed, but hadnt spent the night fully dressed. Nor had Liz Redding. There hadnt been an erotic charge in their shared nakedness through the night, only comfort and an essential, restorative warmth. He closed his eyes and leaned against her. In a sense he was surrendering. The emotion was alien, oddly welcome. Hed lived a life built upon vigilance and sharp edges. It would be good to let go once in a while.
Liz smoothed a strip of sterile tape over the cleaned gash on his head and sat back to look at him, her hands in her lap. She looked fine and flashing to Wyattin good humour and ready to do combat with the world, using her head and her hands. He said, Anything on the news?
Some kids were caught looting the van. The police are trying to track down where the paintings came from.
Theyll know soon enough. All you have to do is pick up that phone.
I told you, Ive been suspended. Theyre going to chuck the book at me. I dont care. Ive had enough. Anyway, Im a woman. Theres nowhere for me to go. The boys have got the force sewn up.
Wyatt grunted. Do yourself a favour then. Impress them. Bring me in.
You came to me, remember.
Wyatt remembered. He had seen it as a private communication, a warning perhaps, Liz standing outside his motel like that. He could have slipped away. Instead, hed stepped outside and crossed the car park and tapped her on the shoulder. Shed taken him to a different motel. Said she expected to be arrested if she went home.
There was the soft beat of her body next to him. He wasnt interested in her career, only her impulses. Once a cop, always a cop, he said, more harshly than hed intended.
She said miserably, the words springing from nowhere, I love you.
Wyatt breathed in. Then he breathed out.
What I mean is, youre in my thoughts all the time. I dont want anything to happen to you. She shrugged. If thats what love is.
Wyatt looked around the room. It held no answers for him.
I suppose, she said, you want to run from me now thats out in the open?
Wyatt thought of the unwanted clutter in his life and he thought about the absence of love in it. It was not an ordinary life. He liked it streamlined, but right now it was loaded with complications: Raymond, Chaffey, the dead woman in Warrandyte, Liz Redding, the paintings. As for love, that was another complication. Was it better than none at all? Meanwhile he could settle for an expression of it. He felt cold and ill. He picked her hands out of her lap, chafed them, placed them over his shoulders. Make me warm again.
He saw that hed put a foot wrong. A subtle change passed across Lizs face, as though a deep-seated pain were reasserting itself, drawing out her features, thinning and contracting her face in a kind of recoil. She pulled away from him and sat straight-backed, her chin lifted.
Didnt you hear what I said? All this is momentous for me. You, my job. But everything with you is one way. I havent a clue what you want or think.
Wyatt tried haltingly to discover, from speech, what it was he thought and felt and wanted. The effort exhausted him, bringing on a kind of electric blackness. His head buzzed and dizziness racked him briefly, and pain. When he came out of it he felt her hands on his cheeks. You okay? Youre very pale.
Please, I feel cold.
She took him to the bed, removed his clothes, then her own, and the warmth revived him. Gently does it, she said, easing him into her.
Later she curled up with him, murmured for a while, breathing against his neck, then fell heavily asleep. She was slack, heavy, peaceful and close against him. Wyatt drew his arm out by degrees, swung his legs to the floor and stood. The room swayed and tilted. He closed his eyes, sat, and when the room righted itself, dressed carefully. His shoes presented a problem. He stood above them, clasped the back of a chair, wound his toes in, forced the heel down. The laces could wait; he needed to keep his head up.
The keys to her car were in a leather shoulder-bag. He found a purse, a small box of tissues, tampons, moisturising cream and a mobile phone. Wyatt pocketed the keys, two hundred dollars and the phone. He glanced at the bed. She was sleeping. He closed the door quietly behind him and pressed the gadget on the key ring to disengage the locks on her car.
They sprang open with a strangled electronic yelp, the drivers door creaked when he opened it, and Liz Redding, wrapped in a motel blanket, was at his window before he could start the car and drive away.
He sighed, wound down the window and heard her fury and disappointment. You bastard. Not again, I dont believe it.
Wyatt showed no embarrassment, no anger, no haste only deliberation. Liz, you belong here.
She stood away from him, suddenly exhausted, looking cold and vulnerable and insubstantial beneath the blanket. Im tired of this, Wyatt.
The pause was awkward. Wyatt thought: Ive constructed a life out of moving on. Its easy, all you do is turn your back and put one foot after the other down the road. Would she stop him or wish him luck? It came down to disappointment. Hed disappointed her. But she was not vindictive. Wyatt suddenly felt obscurely grubby for trying to sneak away. His head boomed, a spike of pain behind his eyes. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Youre not fit enough yet.
You could be right, he said.
Some of Liz Reddings combativeness came back to her. I want you.
Were different.
No were not. Ive got the Asahi jewels.
He opened his eyes. Where?
She jerked her head. In my case. I went back to the yacht and found them. I intend to keep them, Wyatt. I intend to melt down the settings and sell the stones.
Theyre fakes.
She laughed. Is that what Heneker told you? I knew he smelt wrong. He was playing it both ways. If you get arrested, his firm gets the Asahi Collection back. If you dont, and he can deal with you again, hed pay you some minimal reward for the so-called fakes and pocket the rest. She paused. Wyatt, join me.
In the gathering silence they were both stubborn, waiting for a way out. Wyatt thought: How calculated are her moves? Does she resemble me, or have the things Ive done, the evasions, made her wary? When doubts set in, its best to go on what is known. Wyatt knew himself, he didnt know her. But he was beginning to, and that hadnt happened to him for a long time. He said, attempting a grin, We cant stay here.
* * * *
Thirty-three
The drive to Belgrave took fifty minutes, but when Raymond got there he found that Chaffeys house was shut up tight, curtains drawn, no car, no sign of life. He searched under flowerpots and mossy garden stones, but found no spare key. The door was deadlocked; there were bars over the windows and security company stickers on the glass. Surely Chaffey wouldnt have panicked and done a runner because the job went sour?
After that he tried Chaffeys office. The whole building was shut. Saturday.
Raymond felt spooked. He drove t
o Hastings with a sensation of guns at his back, of dogs at his heels, expecting to be pinned to the ground by lights and clubs, but he completed the journey intact.
He wondered how he was going to play it with Vallance. Hold out for more time? Offer the paintings as collatoral? Offer to come on board as an employee? Holding out for more time seemed to be the best bet. He knew he couldnt get hard cash for the paintings in the PVC cylinder for weeks, maybe months.
Then again, he did have access to money. Wyatt would have heavy cash put away somewhere, maybe under the floorboards of his place in Tasmania. Plus he had things to settle with Wyatt, the old festering sore and now this more recent cunt act: the whole collection is in their hands and Wyatt walks out on the job as if the risks and rewards and hard work meant nothing at all.
