Cross Off

by Peter Corris

  'You see,' Dunlop said. 'He knew she was lying. How did he know? Maybe because he killed Rankin.'

  'Ah,' Burton said. 'Yes, that does make quite a difference, Mr Dunlop.'

  Peters smiled. 'Officially, she'll no longer be under our protection.'

  Dunlop looked at Burton. 'Officially speaking, that's right.'

  Burton sighed. 'I'm afraid this will have to be very unofficial, very unofficial indeed.'

  'Good,' Dunlop said.

  Peters said, 'Do I sense a degree of personal involvement, Lucas?'

  'You do. He raped her brutally, sliced her up, probably enjoyed it. He's a professional killer. I'd like to put him out of business.'

  'You're not a vigilante, remember,' Peters murmured. 'Not even a policeman any longer.'

  'What am I?' Dunlop said.

  Burton was tapping his papers into a pile, reaching for his briefcase. He looked at Peters. 'You'd better start talking to the CCA people. I'm afraid the nil prosecutam faction will have to prevail for the time being.'

  'That will make me popular with some, unpopular with others,' Peters said. 'The story of my life.'

  Burton clicked the locks on his briefcase. 'One of the problems, as I see it, is assigning people to this . . . affair. Mr Dunlop will participate, of course, but I'm reluctant to expand this circle of cognoscenti However, we will need two teams of three, including a woman.'

  'I know someone,' Dunlop said.

  Tate felt his luck had changed when he picked up the package in Newtown. Fifteen grand in used fifties and hundreds. Very satisfactory. The Rankin business concluded. Pressure exerted, response forthcoming. Military thinking. Another thirty due for Mrs Belfante, although the principals were only thinking of another ten at the moment. They'd have to pay in full when the job was done to his satisfaction. His sugar level returned to normal as he got back into his routines—diet, exercise, insulin and regular testing. He had his eyes checked and was told his vision was still excellent. No need for correction.

  The money went into his safety deposit box with the rest of his savings. Tate, indifferent to politics, admired Paul Keating's style, his head-kicking attitude. However, he bitterly resented Keating's introduction of the tax file number system and the monitoring of large financial transactions, which had forced him to store cash and forgo interest. He wasn't surprised that Keating had got the top job; he recognised another ruthless achiever when he saw one. He was confident that he could make the cash talk the right language in Tasmania when the time came.

  The job now was to find the woman. He recognised that on the last occasion he had got lucky, that this would be harder. He put the baits out in the same way but, as he expected, got no bites. He found a public phone and rang Reuben, and enjoyed hearing the nervousness in the lawyer's voice.

  'You'll be paid. We were just . . .'

  'You were waiting on results,' Tate said. 'That wasn't part of the deal.'

  'Yeah, well, the results are in, or almost.'

  'Meaning?'

  'You did a good job. It looks like she's retracting. That's the word I'm getting.'

  'Good.' Tate gave Reuben details on how the money was to be paid and hung up. His luck definitely had changed. Everyone knew what happened when protected witnesses backed out. They ceased to be protected. Tate read through his material on Ava again, noting the addresses of the flat, Belfante's club, her usual haunts. He paid particular attention to one piece of information—the name and address of the female doctor Ava had gone to for years. One thing was for sure—the way he'd left her she was going to need some doctoring now and for some time to come. There was also the question of Dunlop. But, first things first. He'd come running once, maybe he would again.

  'What d'you mean, soon?' Vance Belfante gave Grant Reuben what he thought of as his hard look—jaw firm, slight sneer, unblinking eyes. The lawyer touched his hair knot, turned his signet ring three times. He was losing weight through worry. The ring turned more easily than it used to.

  'I'm getting whispers, nothing solid,' he said. 'The word is that Ava's not going to roll over, then she's thinking about it, or she's changed her mind on something. I don't fucking know for sure. But I'm expecting to hear soon, something official. And when I do, you're out of here.'

  'Thanks for nothing,' Belfante said. 'This place is getting to me. I'm not sleeping. I'm putting on weight. I think I'm getting an ulcer. I'm up to three packets a day.'

  'I brought you some Camels.'

  'I don't want fucking Camels. I want out! George is putting pressure on me. Jesus, it's coming from all directions. How're things at the club and the shops?'

  Reuben knew things were bad—that custom had fallen off and the managers were skimming. He'd taken a few substantial percentages himself. He debated whether to increase the pressure on Belfante by giving him an edited version of the facts, or to keep him sweet. He opted to hold the information in reserve for use later, if need be. He wanted to get clear of Belfante and his problems, taking as many of his assets as possible with him when he went. There were ways to do it. Already a good chunk of the property was held by dummy companies more under his control than Belfante's.

  'Everything's quiet,' he said. 'But okay for the time being. There's a couple of things you should know.'

  Vance lit a Camel from the pack Reuben had put on the table. He coughed at the thick, unfiltered smoke and didn't get the sweet hit at the back of his throat the way he used to. He squashed it out and lit a Winfield red. He was hooked on the habit now, on having one burning. 'Like what?' he said.

  Reuben had told Vance nothing about the attack on Ava except that she hadn't been killed. Partly because it wasn't safe to go into details over the telephone, partly for other reasons on his private agenda. He judged that this was the time. 'Ava got cut up a bit. Nothing too serious. Not her face or anything.'

  'So?'

  Reuben watched Vance closely, wanting to read his state of mind in his responses to this information. 'He raped her, too.'

  That got to him, Reuben thought. He watched Belfante's slack, uninterested face turn pale and the muscles tighten. 'He raped my wife?'

  'Yes. I'm sorry.'

  'He goes. When I get out of this, he goes. He fucking-well goes.'

  Or you do, Reuben thought. Or both of you go and leave me in peace to make a quiet serious quid and enjoy life. He wasn't made for all this cops and robbers stuff, didn't get off on it. He reached across the table, slapped Belfante on the shoulder and gave him the big professional grin, the LA Law look. 'Don't worry, mate,' he said. 'Everything's going to be all right.'

  'When?' Vance said.

  'Soon.'

  13

  'Want to do it?' Ann Torrielli said. 'Luke, of course I want to do it. I can get leave and come down . . . When?'

  Dunlop sat in his house in Marrickville. Rain was streaking the window, making tracks in the dust accumulated through a dry winter. He wanted to be back in North Queensland with Ann, walking along a beach. Bringing her down to Sydney, wet in the spring, was the next best thing. 'Great,' he said. 'There's one thing. He might have seen you. That could be a problem.'

  'I can go blonde. Makes a hell of difference. I did it once.'

  'Okay,' Dunlop said.

  'You don't sound so sure all of a sudden.'

  'I'm being bloody selfish. This is dangerous.'

  'I want to do it. I'm selfish, too. It's so bloody dull up here. And I miss you.'

  'Me, too.'

  'How is she? Ava.'

  'Getting cabin fever, she says. She's looking forward to swanning around again. When you know your flight, leave a message on the answering machine. I'll pick you up.'

  'I hope you like blondes.'

  'I like you,' Dunlop said.

  The plan, painfully arrived at by Peters, selected high-level representatives of the CCA and Dunlop, was for the charges against Belfante and Frost to be reduced to conspiracy to commit murder and both men were to be bailed. Warrants had been secured to permit
extensive phone taps, mail interceptions and other forms of surveillance covering Belfante, Frost and Grant Reuben. As far as the surveillance teams and monitors were concerned, the object was to secure further and stronger evidence connecting Belfante and Frost to the killing of David Rankin. The telephone in the house Ava was to occupy in Paddington was to be bugged, otherwise Ava's safety was the concern of Dunlop, a CCA officer named Roy Waterford, Ann Torrielli and a three-man CCA backup team.

  When Dunlop met Ann at the airport he was startled by the transformation. The luxuriant dark tresses had become a set of bouncing, blonde curls. The contrast with the olive skin and dark eyes and eyebrows was startling. She wore jeans and a black silk shirt and looked thinner. Dunlop commented on this as soon as they were in the car. The actual reunion had amounted to no more than a circumspect kiss.

  'I got sick,' Ann said. 'Pining for you.'

  'Play hell with your passport, all this.'

  Ann laughed. 'It's all reversible. Particularly the weight. I tend to go up and down depending on whether I'm happy or blue. It's good to see you, Luke.'

  Dunlop's emotions were mixed. The powerful attraction he felt for her was spilling over into something else, a concern. He was almost regretting the impulsive, hormone-driven decision to bring her into the operation. And there was another confusion. Ava had changed. She was quieter, more serious, impressively brave. Dunlop felt himself drawn to her and doubted his ability to resist if she offered herself to him sexually as she had done in the past. 'You're a user,' his ex-wife Katarina had told him. 'You use people. You don't really care about them.' Was he using Ann to run interference, to keep him, more or less, on the personal and professional rails? He wasn't sure.

  He reached for Ann's hand and squeezed it. 'Got your gun?'

  Ann didn't answer. Dunlop was driving one of the pool of cars that had been made available—a green Ford Escort. He started the engine and joined the queue leaving the car park. On the road, he honked impatiently at a slow-moving station wagon, cursed and swung abruptly into another lane, cutting across in front of a taxi.

  'Luke, what's the matter?'

  'Nothing. You'll just have to learn how Sydney traffic moves.'

  'I've been in Sydney before,' Ann said. 'And I drove a tourist mini-bus in Rome for six months. Don't tell me about city traffic.'

  'I'm sorry. I'm edgy.'

  'Understandable. You know what I think we should do?'

  'What?'

  'Go somewhere and fuck. Get that out of the way. Then get down to business. Like in Annie Hall, the Woody Allen picture. Woody says to Diane Keaton at the start of their date that they should kiss now and they'll be able to digest their food better, or something like that. Have you seen it?'

  'No.'

  'You haven't lived.'

  Dunlop laughed and he slowed down, looking for a motel.

  Later, Dunlop pulled the sheet up over their naked, sweating bodies. 'Can't afford to catch a chill,' he said. 'We're not in the tropics now.'

  'Don't treat me as if I'm some sort of exotic flower, Luke. I've ice-skated in Sweden in the winter. Knock it off.'

  'Sorry. We'd better get going.'

  Over an instant coffee in the motel room and during the short drive to Paddington, Dunlop filled Ann in on the planning to date. Ava was staying in a city hotel. She was to move to Paddington and start visiting some of her old habitat—a coffee bar, her hairdresser, her doctor. On the assumption that Grant Reuben had been involved in setting up the Cooktown attack, word was to be passed to him that Ava could identify her assailant.

  'Which is true,' Ann said.

  Dunlop nodded. 'Tallish, medium colouring, looks fit, is all she can give us verbally—but she's one hundred and one per cent certain she'll know him in the flesh.'

  'Doesn't give us much to go on. Rules out Danny De Vito types and basketball players, I suppose.'

  'There's a bit more. They ran what little we've got on him past the medicos. Regular meals, heavy sweating, ripe breath, the needle cap—the thinking is that he's a diabetic. The sweating's consistent with what's called an insulin reaction, or a hypoglycaemic attack—low blood sugar. Could explain why he backed off.'

  'And why he missed when he shot at you.'

  'Maybe. Nearly there. You'll like the house.'

  'If you're saying that because it's up on stilts, I'll thump you.'

  Vance Belfante could not get the zipper on his trousers to close. The suit he'd worn to prison was tight all over. The track pants he'd been wearing had concealed from him how much weight he'd gained. He swore as he dressed, preparatory to leaving, Grant Reuben having posted his bail and a similar surety for Frost, who was in the prison hospital suffering from influenza. Vance went impatiently through the release processing and joined Reuben in a waiting room. It was the first unbarred room he'd been in for weeks and he turned slowly, letting the feeling of freedom seep into him.

  Grant Reuben was not happy. The old sleekly confident Belfante of Kings Cross was one thing; the chain-smoking remand prisoner in a tracksuit was another. Both dealable with. This crumpled fat man, bulging out of his clothes and looking belligerent already, was a different proposition. He extended his hand. 'Congratulations, Vance.'

  Belfante's handshake was brief. 'For what? Conspiracy carries ten years.'

  'It's bullshit. They're bluffing. It'll all just melt away. You're free.'

  'Yeah. Well, let's go.'

  'We've got a bit to talk about.'

  Vance lit a cigarette and coughed. 'Tell me in the nearest pub.'

  They rode in Reuben's BMW. Belfante favoured flashier cars, but he had to admit the ride was good. Mobile phone. He wondered how much the car cost. The old Grant appeared to be doing pretty well, although he was a lousy driver, nervous, not making full use of the car's power. Vance ached to be behind the wheel again. It was his number two priority, after a drink.

  Installed in the saloon bar of the Maroubra Tavern, Belfante bought a double Jamesons. Reuben opted for light beer. Vance sank the whiskey in two gulps and ordered a schooner. He lit a cigarette from the butt of the last. 'So, tell me what I should know.'

  'One of the bail conditions is that you can't go anywhere near Ava.'

  Belfante almost choked as he inhaled smoke and swallowed beer. 'I can't go near my own wife? Can they do that?'

  'Yes. If you do and she reports it you go back inside.'

  'Shit! What else?'

  Reuben explained something of the business problems—incursions by competitors like Weiss, just as Vance had feared; increased pay-offs to providers of 'protection', a projected audit by the taxation authorities.

  'Great, just great.' Belfante finished his schooner and looked at the lawyer who was still only halfway through his middy. 'Are you drinking, or what?'

  Reuben took a dutiful sip. 'There's more.'

  Belfante groaned. 'I was better off inside. What the fuck else could there be?'

  'Shelley Lamb's filed for a maintenance order for herself and the child.'

  Belfante laughed. The laugh interfered with his respiration and he choked. He leaned back in his chair, wheezing, gasping for air. His fat, flushed face turned purple as he struggled to breathe. Reuben pounded his back. Belfante hit him with a punch that sent Reuben sprawling and knocked over their glasses. The barman shouted a threat and other drinkers backed away as Belfante lurched up, still gasping but gaining some control.

  'It's okay. It's okay,' he panted. 'A mistake.' He sucked in a deep, tortured breath and helped Reuben to his feet. The shiny fabric of the lawyer's suit jacket was dripping beer. 'Sorry, mate. Sorry. I'm under a lot of pressure and when you thumped me back I just . . . Let's get you another drink.'

  Reuben accepted the apology, allowed himself to be consoled, but he'd made his decision. This slob had had his day.

  Tate stacked the folding bicycle in the storeroom of his block of flats. He had ridden it ten times around a two kilometre track in Centennial Park and felt the better for the exerci
se. He'd made one stop for a breather—and to pick up the package which was placed in the clump of long grass as he'd directed. He entered his flat and took off his helmet. He shrugged the backpack from his shoulders, removed the envelope and tossed it on his bed. After showering, he tested his sugar level, which was low as he'd expected following such a strenuous work-out. He made coffee and added two spoons of sugar, permissible under the circumstances. The ten thousand was delivered satisfactorily. Tate frowned over the slip of paper with the words MAKE CONTACT printed on it in block capitals. He didn't like being instructed.

  He considered his options as he sipped the hot, sweet coffee. At a pinch, he could go to Tassie now, find a cheaper place than in the area he had in mind. Safer in one way, not in another. The woman knew what he looked like; so, possibly, did Dunlop. What if they turned up his army record somehow? They could do anything with those fucking computers nowadays. Safer to wipe the slate. Cross them off. And then there was the high country above the Huon Valley, the rugged, timbered slopes on which he'd set his heart. He'd be buggered if he'd settle for second best. He went out and called Reuben from a different phone booth to the one he'd used before.

  'Making contact,' Tate said.

  'Yeah, um. Couple of things. Look, it might be better if you called me on my mobile number.'

  Tate laughed. 'You worried about a bug?'

  'Well, yeah.'

  Christ, what an amateur, Tate thought. 'If you're bugged, mate, they'll be picking up your bloody car phone loud and clear. I'm in a public booth, you find one and ring this number.' He dictated it. 'Make it snappy and they've got no hope of getting onto it. Clear?'

  Tate hung up and jiggled coins in his hand. When Reuben rang he still sounded edgy. 'Ah, the word is the . . . subject can identify you and is willing to do so.'

  Tate said nothing.

  'Secondly, the client wants the more drastic option to be taken.'

  Tate smiled. The luck was holding. 'It'll cost him.'

  'The client offers twenty but insists on absolute removal. You follow?'