by JR Carroll
With one arm holding McLeish, Gellie summoned back-up and an ambulance on his walkie-talkie, yelling confused instructions, trying to remember the name of the hotel and where it was, feeling McLeish go deeper into shock as he began hyperventilating. He was screaming hysterically and shaking all over, twitching and jerking violently as his cardiac and nervous systems went out of control. Gellie did his best to calm him, telling him he would be all right, but McLeish wasn’t responding. He kept on wanting to touch his face, to stem the flow of blood, but every time he did and his hand came away, sticky with gore, the sight of it and the realisation of how deeply and seriously he was cut sent new waves of panic and hysteria through him.
Leaving his partner for a moment Gellie, firearm drawn, tried the door to room 18. It wouldn’t open, even though Gellie was using the key, so he put his shoulder against it and heaved. The door would not budge. He heaved harder, then harder still, and the door gave fractionally. Peeping through the gap Gellie could see that a bed had been jammed against it. Gellie was strong, but he had no hope of forcing that door open enough to get in, so he went back to comforting McLeish and screaming, ‘Member down; repeat, member down!’ into the walkie-talkie, demanding the assistance he was assured was on the way. When the reinforcements arrived ten minutes later, McLeish was close to unconscious and looked to have lost many litres of blood, if the size of the carpet stain was any indication. Paramedics bandaged him, attached a bottle of plasma to his good arm and rushed him away. Gellie was feeling dizzy, and leaned against the wall with McLeish’s blood all over him. The image of that flap of flesh hanging from McLeish’s face, exposing white cheekbone, made him want to pass out. A phalanx of police managed to batter the door open, but of course there was no-one inside. There was no-one and no sign that anyone had stayed there – just an open window, a fluttering curtain, a view of the fire escape leading down into the teeming, peak-hour city streetscape. The bed was meticulously made, and the room itself would have passed the most rigorous of military inspections.
Since no-one had seen the attacker they could not be certain it was Kamp, but Wolfgang Lutz was having none of that. ‘He’s going right off his head,’ he said to Alex Grimke at the hospital, waiting and hoping to speak with McLeish. ‘That’s good news for us, because he’s unravelling, but bad news for whoever comes in contact with him from now on. Every cop in the state’s going to be after him. He has nothing to lose. He’s a rampaging monster, a killing machine. He’s armed to the fucking teeth, and I can promise you this: he will not be captured alive.’
McLeish was going to be out of it with morphine for some time, they were informed, so there was no point in hanging around. That was unfortunate: a description, however minimal, might have helped. It was surprising how much you could get from a single item of clothing or a facial characteristic. Was he still the man Serge had seen in the casino? They had to assume so, but if there was any way he could change his appearance even now, Kamp would do it.
‘In New Zealand he used to pinch a motorbike, head for the bush and lie low until things cooled down,’ Wolfgang was saying as he popped a can of Coke back at the St Kilda Road police station. ‘But he doesn’t know the bush here. He only knows the city. He’ll still be holed up somewhere – anywhere – waiting to break cover.’ He looked out the window. ‘Getting dark. May as well forget about it until tomorrow. The night is his best friend.’
‘But he has nowhere to be,’ Alex said. ‘Unless he’s camped in the open somewhere. Shacked up with the homeless crew in a doss-house.’
‘Whorehouse, more likely,’ Wolfgang said, staring at his Coke can. ‘The night may be his best friend, but he does have a history of seeking out female company when under stress.’ They looked at each other, then Alex picked up the sheets on the desk containing the list of brothels and escort services and followed Wolfgang out to the car park.
‘You’re a bit hyped up tonight, aren’t you,’ Selena was saying, while Gerald went his hardest, grunting and sweating. There hadn’t been much preamble, no foreplay, not even the baby oil – he’d come in and set upon her like a wildman on heat. When he had finished he eased out, disposed of the condom in the toilet bowl and then dropped on the bed beside her, breathing hard, his forearm resting on his forehead as he gazed at the ceiling light.
‘Feeling better?’ Selena said, lighting a cigarette.
‘Yeah,’ Gerald said. ‘Shit, yeah.’ He was breathing noisily through his nose – she could see his nostrils flaring and the pulse in his neck working overtime.
‘Anything you want to tell me about?’ She said. ‘It’s all part of the service.’
Gerald said: ‘I’ve had a prick of a day. People hassling me big-time. And me fuckin’ guts is hurting.’
‘Your wounds,’ Selena said.
‘Yeah, me fuckin’ wounds. Well, we know how to fix that, don’t we.’ He reached into his pack and pulled out a half-bottle of Jack Daniel's, from which he swigged. ‘I can feel it doin’ me good,’ he said, lying back on the pillow. ‘You want some?’
‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I’m on duty.’
Gerald laughed. ‘So you are. Tell you what, when you’re a hot-shot lawyer you can look after all my problems, Selena.’
‘When I’m a hot-shot lawyer, it’ll cost you more than a hundred bucks for the privilege.’
‘What, no mates’ rates? No frequent-flyer points?’
‘I somehow think, Lewis, that you’re gonna need more than lawyers to fix your problems.’
‘Fuckin’ A. You’re not wrong.’ He rested for a while, looking at his watch every so often, then he began paying attention to Selena again. He opened the drawer where she kept her lingerie and withdrew some red stockings, which he trailed across the contours of her naked chest. It was with some satisfaction that he saw the white skin pucker and her nipples enlarge.
‘Money first,’ she said. ‘You know the system, Lewis.’
‘You’re a hard woman,’ he said. ‘That’s why I like you. You’re not one of these weak bitches.’ He climbed off the bed sporting a big, swinging hard-on, got the cash from his pack and tossed it on the bedside drawer. Then he sat astride her while she squeeze-stroked his dick, which was still sticky from the condom he’d just been wearing. That’s it,’ he said, leaning back. ‘That’s the way. Go faster, go on.’ She did this for a good while, until a teardrop of liquid appeared, then he took her hand away. ‘Don’t want to get off too soon, do we,’ he said thickly. ‘On your turn, love. Let’s spice things up a bit.’
‘Condom,’ she said firmly.
‘You are a stickler for the rules, aren’t you. Fair enough.’
She watched while he got one on with some difficulty, then turned onto her stomach and put her arms behind her back for Gerald to tie together.
‘Not too tight,’ she said, as he knotted the stockings around her wrists with unexpected harshness, making her jolt.
When Alex swung out into St Kilda Road he wasn’t sure exactly where he was going. He’d given the list to Wolfgang, who was scrutinising it with a torch. Then one name near the top caught his eye: Kitty’s Wish. What did that trigger in his mind? Something.
‘Fuck a duck,’ he said. ‘I wonder.’
‘Wonder what?’ Alex said. ‘Which way am I going?’
‘South Melbourne,’ he said. ‘Phoenix Street, just off Clarendon. The place is called Kitty’s Wish.’
Alex did a sudden right turn, scattering traffic and provoking horn blasts. ‘What’s special about it?’ he said.
‘When I had him in custody, years ago, he used to mouth off a lot about women, in particular his wife. He was always belting her up and she was always taking him back. He used to say she liked it, that women don’t mind being smacked around by their husbands because it gives them the chance to forgive them later, some shit like that. Her name was Kitty; Kitty Miewa. I met her. She was part-Maori and the horniest-looking chick I ever saw. Kamp was crazy about her – he stalked her after the divorce, raped and
bashed her, treated her as if she was still his to fuck with. So I’m thinking: animals are creatures of habit, even more than we are. He would have looked through the phone book, looking for a brothel, and he sees this name, Kitty’s Wish. And he goes there because it reminds him of his wife.’
‘Worth a try,’ Alex said, mildly interested. ‘We’ve got to start somewhere. It’s close handy, anyway.’
‘I’m not saying it means fuckin’ jack,’ Wolfgang said. ‘But the name jumped out at me before I remembered what it meant. And if it jumped out at me, it sure as fuck jumped out at him.’
Alex stepped on it, then pulled in briefly at a pub en route for a pit stop – he was desperate for a slash.
‘Better get your prostate checked,’ Wolfgang joked.
When they arrived at the whorehouse there were no parking spaces out the front, so Alex drove around the corner into the side street that bordered the brothel. There were no spots there, either, so they double-parked. Sitting in the car they worked out their strategy, then checked their firearms and got out.
Inside the brothel, they introduced themselves to the manager, a snake-eyed spiv with flat features and hair slicked back mambo-style, wearing a bright red tie and a silver suit. He explained that he was really the acting manager, that the woman in charge wasn’t in tonight. Wolfgang showed him the photofit of Gerald Kamp.
The mambo king lit a long cigarette, studied the picture, blew a stream of smoke over it and said, ‘Is this some desperado, yeah?’
‘You don’t want him messin’ with your girls,’ Wolfgang said. ‘Has he been here?’
‘He has. He is here, I believe.’
‘He’s here now?’ Alex said in a hushed voice.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Point the way,’ Wolfgang said. ‘Room number, please.’
The mambo king looked it up in the book and aimed a sleek, manicured finger down the well-lighted hallway, towards some large potted palms. ‘Room 6. Straight ahead, third door on the left after the jacuzzi area.’
When they reached the door, firearms unshipped, Wolfgang put a hand up to Alex, then gestured with a punching motion towards the door – indicating they should wait and listen before going in hard. The thing was to take him by surprise – assuming it was him inside. The fate of Stan McLeish was very much on Wolfgang’s mind. He had been careless, even cavalier. He had under-estimated Kamp and paid the price. You only had to give him a second’s break or the narrowest of openings and he could disembowel you before you knew what hit you.
From inside came muffled, choking noises, like a person gagging. It certainly didn’t sound like someone in the throes of orgasmic rapture. Wolfgang took a backward step, braced himself, then launched his R. M. Williams boot at the door, which flew open, ripping a brass latch from its mountings. At the same instant he was inside, crouching and sweeping the room with his .38 held straight out in front of him in two hands.
He did not see Gerald Kamp. What he did see was a naked woman on the bed, trussed up in stockings. Her hands were tied behind her back, and another stocking, attached to the wrists, had been pulled up and fixed tightly around her neck. She was arching steeply backwards, so whoever did it must have jerked her head back before wrapping the stocking around her throat. Wolfgang recognised the knotting technique: the more the woman struggled against it, the more she tightened it and strangled herself. By the time the victim realised this, panic set in and then it was all over. She had passed the panic stage: her livid face and throat were bulging grotesquely, the jugular vein looked about to explode. She was foaming at the mouth and her eyes were rolling so far upwards only the whites were visible. While Wolfgang cut the stockings with his pocket knife Alex searched the room, kicked open the bathroom door: no Kamp. No-one.
‘Don’t waste your time. He’s flown – fuckin’ gone,’ Wolfgang said, working frantically to free the woman – the knot at her throat was so tight it was nearly impossible to get the blade under it without cutting her. Eventually he succeeded, and the woman gave an almighty gasp and collapsed onto the bed, coughing, spluttering, wheezing, clutching her throat and writhing about – she had been seconds from death, and knew it.
‘You’ll be all right, love,’ Wolfgang said. ‘Here, put this over you.’ He passed her a dark blue towelling robe. Through a curtained sash window, which was open, he saw that a pair of wooden shutters had been forced outwards – one of them was hanging crazily on its hinges. He peered out into the night: nothing but darkness, an empty street lined with parked cars, their roofs glinting in streetlight, the city lights in the background. Their double-parked car was directly outside. Maybe he had heard it, maybe he had heard two car doors shut, and that was enough. Maybe he had heard their voices. Maybe if one of them had waited with the vehicle …
In the street Wolfgang felt an urge to run amok. He wanted to fire some shots in the air and let off steam, go nuts. It was quite possible Kamp was toying with them right at this minute, watching them from some safe place and having a good laugh. Alex was on the car radio organising a search of the area. Standing some distance off, Wolfgang heard a muted voice say: ‘Hey!’
‘What’d you say?’ he said to Alex, sitting in the car with the door open.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ Alex said.
‘I thought I heard you say “Hey”.’
‘That’s funny. I thought you said it.’
Wolfgang scanned the houses, the front gardens, the parked cars. The street was full of them. It could have come from anywhere: sounds were hard to pinpoint at night, which Kamp knew as well as he did. ‘Fuck it,’ he hissed. ‘Where are you, Kamp? Come on out and show yourself, you weak mongrel! Come and take me on, one on one! Just you and me! You gutless piece of shit! You girl!’
No sound came back to him beyond the echoing of his own words in the clear air. Patrol cars with lights flashing began entering the street. It was useless – useless. He looked across towards where he thought he had heard the voice coming from. He didn’t imagine it if Alex heard it too. Christ, they could have a hundred, a thousand cops scouring the neighbourhood and it wouldn’t do any good. He rejoined Alex, holstering his piece, and had one last look over his shoulder. His radar was telling him Kamp was still out there somewhere, and the radar didn’t lie. Wolfgang couldn’t help himself: he went across the road, looking over fences, into trees, trying to distinguish a movement or a human shape hiding somewhere. Just a flicker from the corner of his eye was all he needed.
Nothing.
Wolfgang gave it up, stepping between two parked cars and nearly getting run over by a passing vehicle as he was about to cross the road. It was a close call, so close he caught a glimpse of the driver’s alarmed face as he sped by. Then, when he had moved off again, he could have sworn he heard a sound like a snicker come from somewhere behind him. Your day’s coming, mate, he said to himself.
25
Robert was putting a bag of rubbish in the wheelie bin when, through the flapping garments on the clothes line, he saw a person who looked altogether familiar coming down the concrete driveway. When she reached the stairs she removed her sunglasses and looked up, obviously searching for a flat number.
‘Can I help you, ma’am,’ he said, surprising her – she hadn’t seen anyone there through the sheets and towels on the Hill’s hoist. It took her a moment to pick him, shielding her eyes from the glare coming off the sheets – it was a bright, windy morning – but then she broke into a wry sort of smile, put the shades back on and walked towards him.
‘Hello, Robert,’ she said.
‘Hello, Patti.’
She was wearing an open-weave white top, faded blue jeans and navy Airwalk runners. Bag slung over her shoulder. To Robert’s eye she could have stepped straight out of 1982, the year they met. Hair a little shorter, conforming to the current fashion, but still red and still full of curls. If anything, the curls were tighter than he remembered. It was the kind of hairstyle that looked as if she couldn’t do a thing
with it, but which probably cost a lot of money to arrange it that way. Robert stepped out from behind the tangle of clothes and then suddenly felt unsure: should they shake hands, kiss – or what? Patti, still smiling, made no move to do either. They stood a little apart.
‘You look better than last time I saw you,’ she said.
‘Oh, that,’ he said. ‘Yes. Well. The human body is a remarkably resilient organism, isn’t it. Just keeps on bouncing back.’
‘It needs to be, sometimes. Resilient.’
‘It needs to be most of the time, I find.’
Her smile widened. She looked absolutely fantastic: a beautiful woman in her prime.
‘You haven’t changed at all,’ he said. ‘You look exactly the same. Exactly.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Unbelievable.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I know, I know: you can’t say the same about me. Must be the genes, I guess.’
‘I guess.’ Then she said, ‘How about a coffee?’ She looked around. ‘If you’re not doing anything.’
‘Sure.’ He glanced up at his flat, picturing the wreckage and debris inside – definitely no place for a visitor of this calibre. Or anyone. ‘Ah – I haven’t done the housework yet. It’s a bit of a disaster in there, really. Huge dinner party last night.’
