He thought of the man’s secrets that would go to the grave with him, and of those who would hate him for the loss of those secrets.
He thought of the fear and confusion among the man’s friends, who would never know who’d pulled the trigger, or why.
He thought of the ancient fear of the lone assassin, who was nameless and numberless and haunted the dreams of the powerful.
He thought of the detective sergeant he had always called uncle, who had allowed him to escape and who would never have wanted this for him, because he was a good man and would be ashamed. The same detective sergeant who’d told him it was easy to force a man to eat his gun and make it look like suicide. Who told him that the law was just violence translated into words and that his father had always lived beyond the frontier, where things like that happened.
George Monroe had told him that what was unclear now would one day become clear, and only then should he return. He told him these things just before he shook his hand and reminded him there was a war on, that he should go over east and join the army, and then he opened the door and set him free.
The shooter thought of these things as he scraped the mulch with the toe of his shoe to cloud the impressions he had left. He thought of them as he withdrew his pistol and chambered a round and slipped out the clip and pressed the 9mm shells with his thumb before returning the clip and weighing the pistol heavy and cool against the palm of his hand.
The Statesman whirred in first gear up the slope of the driveway and jerked to a stop in front of him. The handbrake was ratcheted up and as the door opened the shooter got a whiff of saltwater and stale tobacco. He took the breath that would last him until the moment he decided and stepped out from behind his cover. He saw the scuba tank on the back seat of the car and he noted the suit the man was wearing and the half-carton of beer he was carrying under one arm, and he walked on silent rubber soles up behind him.
He felt the need to breathe but swallowed down on the name of the face that he would never see. He took a final step inside the range of the man’s instincts and leaned closer and pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times.
‘For my father,’ he said, and he walked away.
Acknowledgements
Some of the events in this novel are based on a true incident; however, all characters in it are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
I’d like to thank Ben Ball for taking this on, Meredith Rose for her incisive editing, and Mary Cunnane for her representation.
I’d also like to thank Terry McLernon, fifth-generation West Australian copper – something of a record, as I understand it – for his advice and efforts. And Frank Scott, ex-detective sergeant in the WA CIB, who suffered the usual fate of police whistleblowers – marginalisation, harassment, forced retirement. Thanks also to Shane Finn, Rose Black, Archie Marshall, Juliet Wills, Marty Saxon, Avon Lovell, Joseph Fernandez and Quentin Beresford for sharing their knowledge, and others who helped but prefer not to be named.
Thanks also to those who offered advice on the manuscript: Deborah Robertson, Mark Constable, Perry Middlemiss and Hilary Bonney.
Finally, for your heart – Bella.
VIKING
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First published by Penguin Group (Australia), 2010
Text copyright © David Whish-Wilson 2010
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ISBN: 978-1-74-253129-8
Line of Sight Page 22
