by JR Carroll
They locked eyes. Markleigh was not a man to be outstared, and it was a pissing contest Tim was happy to lose. Let him think he held the advantage. He lowered his eyes.
Markleigh gave a soundless, dirisive snort. Only then did he back off.
‘You’ve come a long way for this visit,’ Markleigh said. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘I thought it was time we had a talk, you and I,’ Tim said.
‘Is that right?’
‘Sort out some differences.’
‘Differences?’ Markleigh said. ‘That what you call them?’
‘Call them what you like.’
Markleigh laughed—a hollow and contemptuous laugh Tim remembered well from his cop days. When he was interrogating a suspect he often laughed in this manner in the poor unfortunate’s face. Usually it was a prelude to a beating.
‘You’ve got balls coming here,’ Markleigh said. ‘I’ll give you that much.’
Tim downed his drink. The glass was empty. Markleigh indicated the bottle on the table, then for Tim to help himself. He stepped across and poured the drink, hoping his hand wasn’t shaking.
It was remarkably steady, he was pleased to note.
‘Course, there’s no guarantee you’re going to leave here,’ Markleigh said in a quieter tone that made the comment even more threatening.
Tim searched Markleigh’s eyes, but they were impenetrable, expressionless. Then a smile split his broad, muscular face.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘Why would I want to harm you?’ The words dripped sarcasm.
Tim let it pass. Better to let Markleigh make the play; go where he wanted to go in his own good time. That was Tim’s plan. It was the dance of death.
Markleigh stepped close—too close for comfort again. He flexed his jaw; muscles in his cheeks twitched alarmingly. There was an aura of total indestructibility about him.
Tim had no doubt Markleigh could take him apart any time he felt like it.
He tried his best not to look intimidated.
‘You don’t know the half of what you’ve done to me,’ Markleigh said into his face, almost in a whisper.
‘Got a feeling you’re about to rectify that situation.’
‘Eleven years, eight months, nine days,’ Markleigh said. ‘Ripped from my life. Because you were incompetent, or didn’t give a shit. Which was it, Tim?’
‘Neither.’
‘Bullshit. I heard you struck some sweetheart deal with the prosecution that you forgot to tell me about.’
‘That is complete crap,’ Tim said. It was the first he’d heard of this. But in prison, conspiracy theories flourished like wildflowers after a desert storm.
‘Not according to the prison grapevine.’
‘What you’re suggesting is just impossible, mate. It didn’t—couldn’t—happen.’
‘Lies, treachery and deception,’ Markleigh said. ‘That’s the holy trinity of the legal profession.’
‘You never had much luck with lawyers over the years, did you?’
Markleigh was unfazed by the thinly veiled insult. ‘Problem with lawyers,’ he said, ‘is that they think it’s all about them.’
‘Maybe. But a jury of seven men and five women found you guilty, on the basis of evidence presented. And they only took five hours to reach a decision.’
‘There was no body. No forensic evidence. No case. You fucked it up—or sold me out.’
‘I did everything I could. You and Ross incriminated yourselves, over and over. You couldn’t shut up on the phone, before and after the fact.’
‘Those were words, not deeds. Talking about something isn’t the same as doing it.’
‘I tried that line. The jury didn’t buy it. They didn’t like you from day one. Especially after one of your biker mates got in on the act. That was really smart.’
Markleigh had not switched off the TV, or turned down the volume. Tim found it slightly unnerving to be competing with the voice of Simon Baker.
‘I didn’t have anything to do with that,’ Markleigh said.
Tim nodded. ‘You see the problem the jury had? You didn’t do anything. Someone interfered with a juror, tried to buy him off, and you didn’t know anything about it. You were an innocent victim, everyone out to get you. You came to believe your own bullshit and denials.’
‘I lost my wife,’ Markleigh said, ignoring Tim’s assessment of his shortcomings. ‘My own kids don’t want to know me. They were persecuted at school, because their old man was a murderer. They had to shift schools three times. They’ve grown up without me; I wouldn’t even know where they were now, or what they’re doing. I heard my daughter got married.’
‘That’s tough,’ Tim said. It all had a familiar ring. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘I lost my pension,’ Markleigh went on. ‘Everything I’d worked for. And now I am unemployable, on the scrap heap, and living in this … this shithole courtesy of the Corrective Services Department.’
‘At least you have your freedom.’
‘Freedom? Don’t make me laugh. What’s freedom when you haven’t got a dollar? At least I got free meals inside.’
‘But that’s not entirely true, is it? I understand you have a business venture in the pipeline, along with your good mate Lance Delaney. Or you did have, anyway.’
Markleigh gave Tim a wary look. ‘What bullshit are you on about now?’
Tim held up his empty glass. Markleigh fetched the bottle and carelessly refreshed both their glasses, spilling some on the floor.
‘It’s not bullshit,’ Tim said evenly. ‘The police are onto you. They know about your Dutch mate in Amsterdam, the gym guy you’re in with, the Pakistan connection. They’ve been onto you and Delaney since day one.’
If this information made any impression on Markleigh, he gave no indication of it. But his gaze didn’t waver from Tim’s as he gulped the Bell’s.
Finally he placed a finger on Tim’s chest. ‘Someone,’ he said, ‘is feeding you fairy stories, mate.’
Tim brushed the finger away. Let a man like Markleigh put his hands on you, there was no telling where it might end.
‘That so? Well, how’s this for a fairy story? You and Delaney plotted to kill me. Delaney was supposed to do it while you were safely in jail, but he developed cold feet. Delaney suffered from claustrophobia; he couldn’t take the risk of maybe going back inside. So he subcontracted to some dirtbag bikers. That pissed you off, and for good reason as it turned out. They botched it totally. They’re all dead. And I’m still here.’
Markleigh digested the offering. The face remained impassive, the eyes unblinking.
‘How is it you seem to know so much?’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you why. You’re hearing voices, mate. You need psychiatric help.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Tim said. ‘But not for that reason. It’s all true, Dale. They’ve got hard evidence. You’re in the TIG’s crosshairs. You’re going down.’
That gave Markleigh some pause. For just one second, self-doubt flickered in his eyes. He saw himself back in solitary. A shadow darkened his face. Then it was gone.
‘Nice try, Tim,’ he said. ‘But you’re full of piss and wind. Always have been.’
‘You met with Delaney,’ Tim told him. ‘In the Golden Chariot, lunchtime on Wednesday, July twenty-seven. Is that piss and wind?’
As was his custom, Markleigh took his time responding as he processed the information. Markleigh was a man who measured his words carefully, and when he did speak, he meant what he said. That went right back to his days as a cop. He took another pull on the Scotch, eyeing Tim as if he were an insect he’d like to crush under his heel. Then he turned away, a dismissive gesture.
‘So what if I did?’ he said as he crossed the room. ‘Not that I’m admitting anything.’
‘You have to ask yourself,’ Tim said. ‘If I know that, who else does?’
‘I couldn’t give a flying fuck. Having a drink with someone is not a criminal offence, last I heard.’
>
‘It might be, if that someone is Lance Delaney. I’m sure the Parole Board would take an interest, for openers—Delaney being a violent criminal who, two days after meeting you in the Golden Chariot, tried to kill me. You can see it’s not a good look.’
‘How it looks is one thing. But how it is—well, that’s something else.’
‘You arranged for Delaney to come down to my house that night. You conspired to commit murder.’
‘So you keep saying,’ Markleigh said.
‘I have a copy of the disk, plus phone transcripts of your conversations with Delaney and others. You’re definitely in the hot seat, Dale.’ The transcript part was a lie, but Markleigh wouldn’t know that. It was part of the plan. Tim wanted him to feel cornered, desperate.
‘Raines.’
‘That’s right. He’s been watching you since the day you got out.’
‘But why bother?’ Markleigh said. ‘Seems a waste of valuable police resources to me.’
‘Force command doesn’t like it when one of their own turns bad,’ Tim said. ‘They were hoping you’d do something stupid, I guess, so they could throw you back in a jail cell. And you obliged them.’
‘Raines is dead,’ Markleigh said. ‘Or near as.’
‘Critical but stable. He may or may not survive.’
Markleigh produced one of his grim, self-satisfied smiles. ‘Well, that’s what he gets for shoving his face in where it wasn’t wanted.’
‘He saved my life.’
‘Hardly seems worth it, does it, the price he paid. Even if he lives, he’ll never be the same again.’
‘Perhaps,’ Tim said. ‘Fortunately for me, he didn’t see it that way.’
Markleigh shrugged. ‘I don’t care if he lives or dies. Makes no difference to me.’
‘And what about Amy? She didn’t deserve to be shot.’
Markleigh paused a couple of beats, choosing his words. ‘Tough about Amy. But she brought it on herself. When you jump into the sack with a nut job like Delaney, it isn’t exactly swimming with the dolphins, is it.’
‘How’d you know she was on with Delaney?’
‘He told me. Said she was hot. Wild in bed, he said. Do anything, in spades. Wasted on you, mate.’
Tim swallowed. He didn’t want to hear this, but he knew Markleigh was just goading him. All part of the dance …
He stood still, watching Markleigh. There was a thumping in his head, in syncopation with the steady drumming of rain on the metal roof. In that moment he experienced a flash of insight, a sort of fateful vision. There was going to be hell to pay, and soon …
‘Why did you come here tonight, Tim?’ Markleigh said in that characteristic soft voice, muscular legs spaced apart. ‘Really?’
‘I wanted to hear it from your own mouth.’ Before I kill you.
‘Why would I give you that satisfaction?’ Markleigh said.
Tim drained the rest of his Scotch. Then he advanced to the coffee table and put down the glass. ‘Not for my satisfaction,’ he said. ‘But yours.’
Markleigh looked momentarily puzzled before regaining his impregnable posture: hand on hip, jaw jutting.
‘I think you’ve got it arse about, mate,’ he said, putting his empty glass on the table too. ‘But either way, I need a piss. Please—make yourself at home.’
He swept an arm expansively before disappearing down the darkened hallway.
Tim sat down in one of the lounge chairs. He glanced at the TV. Simon Baker was seated in a restaurant with an attractive woman. He was apparently reading her thoughts while giving her the eye, and she was clearly impressed with his intuitive powers.
Tim wished he knew what was going on in Dale Markleigh’s mind.
He heard a toilet flushing.
About a minute later, Markleigh emerged from the gloom of the hallway. He sat in the lounge chair facing Tim. Only the coffee table separated them.
One minute. It seemed a long time for the return journey, even if he took the time to wash his hands.
Markleigh reclined in his chair, hands interlocked behind his head, closely watching Tim with that customary granite face.
Tim was wondering if he had something concealed under his loose-fitting sweat top. Hard to tell, but the possibility was definitely there—down the front or back of his shorts, say. And there’d certainly been time for him to fetch it from its hiding place.
Tim hoped that was the case.
His heart was beating faster. He could feel it. The tension was ratcheting up right through his system. He hoped Markleigh’s eagle eye couldn’t detect it.
‘Now, where were we?’ Markleigh said. He refreshed both glasses and set the bottle down. It was all but empty.
Tim felt that, when the whisky was gone, so were his options. That would be crunch time.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Markleigh said, answering his own question. ‘You were trying to get me to fess up, right?’
‘That’s right, Dale. Get it off your chest.’ You know you want to.
Markleigh narrowed his eyes. ‘You’re a sly bastard, Tim.’
‘You’ve wanted to kill me for years. You told me so. So what’s the big deal? You gave it your best shot, and it didn’t come off. Delaney let you down. That must really piss you off, Dale, because you’ll never get another chance.’
‘Never say never.’
‘Your blood brother promised to do it for you while you were still inside, with the perfect alibi. But he subcontracted the job. That’s why you were dirty on him at the Golden Chariot. You knew that the further removed the job was, the harder it would be to exercise any control over it. Delaney shot that biker, the one they called Cornstalk, and I’d say he was on his way to get rid of the other two, because you didn’t approve, you didn’t want any loose ends or witnesses who might try to cut a deal with the cops if things got tough. You know how that can happen—even years down the track. These things never really go away—especially if your name is Dale Markleigh.’
Markleigh shrugged. ‘That’s your theory. You’re entitled to it.’
‘It’s the right theory, Dale. You could trust Delaney, but not the others. And for good reason. They really made a dog’s breakfast out of it, didn’t they?’
The corner of Markleigh’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. He put a hand on his thigh, and let it slide next to his crotch.
Tim watched his every move.
‘They should’ve been in and out of there in no time,’ Tim said. ‘But they took half the night, and still didn’t get it done. You can’t rely on bikers, mate, because they’re all fuck-ups and psychopaths, right?’
Markleigh clenched both fists. The veins in his neck bulged. ‘Delaney would have done it right,’ he said. ‘I would have done it right.’
Tim nodded. He could barely contain his excitement.
‘You wouldn’t have had the guts to do it yourself,’ he said. ‘Because you’d have been the obvious suspect, you’d have the Parole Board all over you. Once you were released, your alibi was shot. You had to have a go-between, because you didn’t want to take the risk of doing it yourself, no matter how much you wanted to.’
Markleigh’s hand moved up over his crotch, edging towards the sweat top.
‘You’re wrong about that,’ he said.
‘About what, exactly?’
‘Me not having the guts to do it myself. Like I just told you—never say never.’
In the blink of an eye he produced a small revolver and placed it on the table. Tim identified it immediately as a snub-nosed .38. And old-school cop’s weapon of choice. He didn’t move, or respond in any way to the implied threat.
‘You should’ve waited till you got out, Dale. Done it yourself, quick and clean, without being surrounded by a bunch of fucking losers and nut cases.’
‘That’s exactly what I will do,’ Markleigh said. ‘Now that you’ve presented yourself on a platter.’
Tim stared at him, not even daring to blink.
‘You’re right,’
Markleigh told him. ‘I should’ve done it myself. But I made the mistake of trusting Delaney. In fact, he talked me into letting him do it.’ He picked up a remote and killed the TV.
‘So he could have Amy.’
Markleigh smiled. ‘It suited us both, you see. There was a mutual benefit. Not to mention the financial incentive that your wife was only too happy to tell him about, between blow jobs.’
‘To finance the crystal meth deal.’
‘It’s all water under the bridge now, Tim.’
Tim nodded. ‘Deal’s off, right?’
‘On indefinite hold, let’s say.’
‘It’s too hot to handle any time, mate. They’re onto you.’
‘We’ll see,’ Markleigh said. ‘Or, rather, I’ll see. You won’t be around to see anything.’ He picked up the gun.
‘You’re going to shoot me—right here and now?’
‘I told you before. There was no guarantee you’d ever leave here.’
Tim’s mind was working fast. ‘But that’s madness. I’m unarmed. It’s cold-blooded, dead-set murder. You’ve got no hope of getting off. You’ll be back in Long Bay tomorrow, forever.’
Markleigh shook his head. ‘You don’t think I’ve figured that one out? You came here, intending to kill me. We grappled, I wrested the gun from you and shot you, in self-defence.’
‘Doesn’t sound too convincing,’ Tim said. ‘Speaking as a lawyer, of course.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Jury bought that line in Melbourne a while back, didn’t it?’
Tim nodded. ‘Maybe. But there’s no guarantee it’ll fly second time around, Dale. Juries aren’t stupid, as you well know.’
‘No witnesses,’ Markleigh said. ‘My word against a dead man’s. That’s reasonable doubt, right there. And I’ll make sure your prints are all over this gun.’
Tim stared down the little black hole of the .38. Having produced the weapon, Markleigh now had to use it, to satisfy his own twisted version of honour. There was no retreat from here.
Time to make a move.
He stood up. The gun followed him, aimed squarely at his chest.
‘You used to be a good cop,’ Tim said. ‘Now you’re just an out-and-out criminal. What happened, Dale?’
