by Peter Corris
‘Steff,’ I said, ‘When I’m less tense I’ll give you all the dope you need. Right now, I’m going in to deal with my problems and play “My Sweet Lord” and burn some incense for poor old George.’
‘He died happy.’
‘Ten years too early. Look at Paul and Ringo. They gave up smoking, like me.’
Steff did a stylish turn of her ninety plus kilos in her purple kaftan with the mirrors in the skirt and jingled her bracelets. ‘You’re a hopeless case.’
‘You love me, though.’
‘I’ll do a reading on that. See you, Cliff.’
I opened the door to the familiar musty smell. Once, the mail used to be brought up and dropped through the slot. Not now, and I’d forgotten to check the box downstairs. The answering machine was blinking so there was a message. But the bug was still in place. Did it matter?
The first message was a harmless one from a would-be client who’d have to wait. The second was from my daughter Megan to tell me she was touring with a theatre company in Queensland and was just saying hello. That was her second hello in a year. Our relationship was warming up. The last was from Carmichael, as I’d suspected. It was just to let me know that I was in trouble. I already knew that.
I unscrewed the handset the way Hank Bachelor had, and removed the device. I had no idea how the monitoring worked, but I imagined that it took sophisticated equipment at a listening post. Warren North, aka Frank Eastman aka Phil West, had more to worry about now than my phone calls. The more I thought about it the more difficult his situation looked. He’d miscalculated if he thought holding Lorrie would scare me off, and if he thought it’d control Master he’d made an even worse mistake. By now he must know that Master was on the loose and angry. The plan for getting the heroin into the gaol system was shot. I hoped North was under enough stress to impair his judgement and not enough to cause him to wipe the slate clean.
I phoned Bryce O’Connor and got his secretary. She was the person I’d bullied before and when I told her my name she gave me his mobile number.
‘He said he was anxious to hear from you.’
‘That’s nice. Did he say where he’d be?’
Her tone indicated that she was less than happy. ‘I think he was going to Mrs Master’s home or her office.’
Good. O’Connor was on the job. I dialled the mobile number. It rang for a long time before he answered. That didn’t worry me. Maybe he disliked the device as much as I did and fumbled with it, hoping the ringing would stop.
‘Yes?’
The voice was recognisably his, but only just.
‘O’Connor, this is Hardy.’
‘Ah, Hardy. Yes. Good.’
‘We need to talk. Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Your office said you were at Mrs Master’s office or her house.’
‘Ah, I was. Now I’m at home. Yes, we need to talk.’
‘What’s wrong? Are you drunk? Did the police give you a hard time?’
‘… I have had a drink or two. The police? No, not so bad. You’d better come here, Hardy.’
‘Where’s here?’
‘My flat… apartment.’
He rattled off an address in Kirribilli. A trip over the bridge or through the tunnel in late afternoon traffic wasn’t something to look forward to, but O’Connor sounded rattled and I needed him to be able to function when the moment to raise the money came. If it came. I told him I’d be there as soon as possible and hung up. One good thing about the shabbiness and smell of my office is that, while I’m usually glad to get there to deal with business, I’m never sorry to leave it.
The other side of the harbour wasn’t my stamping ground and it wouldn’t hurt to be there while Carmichael and Hammond were on the lookout for me. Given what Frank had said, I thought I’d want to contact them when the time was right. But not yet.
The Mitsubishi handled well and I decided to take the bridge for old time’s sake and because I haven’t yet sorted out the options at the tunnel exit. The traffic was thick but it flowed well and I was across in that semi-foreign land sooner than I expected. I worked my way through to the address O’Connor had given me and it wasn’t really Kirribilli at all but North Sydney. Why do they do it? To be able to say they live in the same suburb as the Prime Minister? That’d be enough to keep me away.
The four level apartment block was set in a garden that would have looked better a few months back, before the big dry. It was still pretty enough, with carefully tended native trees and shrubs and white stone paths with a couple of judiciously placed benches giving a nice harbour view. I could see the blue sheen of a swimming pool through the obligatory fence. The lucky well-heeled residents would be paying top dollar for every plant, bench, tile and litre of water. Security, too. An underground garage could only be accessed by remote control. To get through the gate set in a high wall that was sure to be electronically monitored, you had to stand where a camera, well up out of reach and protected by a heavy grill, could count the hairs in your nose. I buzzed O’Connor’s flat-number two.
His voice came over the intercom, flat and slurred. He was on the piss all right. ‘Hardy… Come.’
The gate swung in and I went up a path to the main door where I went through it all again. Then it was along a carpeted passage, past some enlarged photographs of the building itself and the views it commanded from different angles, to the door of number two. Quite a stroll. These weren’t your little one-bedroom numbers. For the first time the thought occurred to me that O’Connor might have a family. Why else would you need an apartment this size? But then I couldn’t imagine kids growing up in a place like this, pool or no pool. It had the dead feel of too much money and not enough life. It was status living and super secure. Just right in the age of the War against Terror.
I ignored the bell, guessing that it probably chimed something soothing inside, and knocked hard on the door. Even before it opened I had the feeling that things weren’t right. A man like O’Connor doesn’t take half the day off, go home and start drinking. Not unless something has really shaken him to the core. He wouldn’t have enjoyed the interview with the police or having to run interference for Lorrie, but it shouldn’t break him.
But there he was, opening the door, collar and tie in place, suit trousers, polished shoes. His hair was a bit awry and he was paler than when I’d last seen him, but there was no smell of booze and no glass in his hand. He stepped aside without a word and I went in. The small reception area gave way to a large living room with all the right fixings-bookshelves, entertainment unit, expensive furniture and a wall that was all window with a view that took in part of the bridge and went all the way across the water to the Opera House. Picture postcard plus.
O’Connor stood in the middle of the room as if it wasn’t his place at all and he didn’t belong there.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said. ‘You’re acting like a zombie.’
‘Nothing. Nothing. You said we have to talk.’
He was clenching and unclenching one fist and trying not to look at me. Drawing closer I realised he was sweating.
‘You’re in a bad way. Are you diabetic? You look like you’re having a hypo.’
‘No, I’m not diabetic. I’m all right.’
‘You don’t look it or sound it. I need you to be on the ball as this thing goes along. Who’s your doctor?’
‘He doesn’t a need a doctor, Hardy. And you need to stand quite still just where you are.’
Stewart Master stepped into the room and the pistol he held was pointed at my chest.
25
This was no Kevin Simmonds, barefoot in tattered cardigan and trousers being hunted like a wild animal; not your average escapee getting pissed in the first pub or captured in the first brothel he got to. Stewart Henry Master was clean-shaven and neatly dressed in a navy tracksuit and Nike sneakers. He was sober, alert and fit-looking, as if he’d just done a good gym session, had a shower, an espresso with two sugar
s.
‘How the hell did you do it?’ I said.
‘With a lot of help from my friends.’ He nodded at O’Connor. ‘Bryce, I want you to open Hardy’s jacket, left side and take out the gun he’s got tucked away in there. You gave it just a little twitch when you were on camera, Hardy.’
O’Connor, who’d relaxed a bit since the immediate cause of his high anxiety had been resolved, shook his head. ‘I detest firearms. I’m not going near one.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble.’ Moving very slowly I held the jacket open with my left hand and eased the. 38 from the holster with the thumb and forefinger of my right. Still holding it like that by the butt, I flipped it onto one of the leather armchairs.
Stewart nodded approvingly. ‘Very smart.’ He moved smoothly across to the chair, picked up the pistol and put it in the pocket of his tracksuit top.
‘We can do without the guns, Stewart,’ I said. ‘Nobody needs to get shot here.’
‘Get this straight, Hardy. I know you’re a tough guy and a risk-taker and a smooth talker and all that shit. I heard a few stories about you on the inside. But right now and for the immediate future, I say what happens down to the last detail, and you and Bryce have fuck-all input. Understood?’
O’Connor was nodding vigorously but I wasn’t prepared to give Stewart the total control he wanted. I ignored the gun he still held and moved a few steps to lower myself onto the arm of a chair. ‘It’s a nice speech. We know you’re good at that. There’s no evidence you’re any bloody good at anything else except escaping from prison, and that’s got a limited application.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about your wife being held by a desperate man who’s already killed three people that we know of, and what can be done to save her life.’
It took a little of the starch out of him. He must have been running on adrenaline since sometime before his escape and that fuel only lasts so long. His compact body seemed to sag a little and he blinked a few times, a sure sign of fatigue.
‘I’m working on it,’ I said. ‘She’s my client and I feel responsible, but that’s a responsibility we share. You wouldn’t have done what you’ve done without thinking you could help her. Escaping’ll add years to your sentence. You must know that.’
Master appeared to lose interest in the pistol. He lowered it and brought his other hand up to his face, massaging a spot between his eyes. I guessed he had a throbbing headache.
‘We have to pool resources,’ I said. ‘I need to know what you know. You’re whacked. I reckon you’re safe here, at least for a while. I suggest you put down the guns and let Bryce’ get us something to drink and something for your headache. Then we talk and see if we can help Lorrie.’
He wavered. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Fuck you and your “I’m the boss” bullshit. See how close I am now? I reckon I could get to you before you could shoot me, because I’d know when I was going to move and you wouldn’t.’
‘What about Bryce?’
‘Bryce’ll do whatever we tell him. Won’t you, Bryce?’
O’Connor did some more nodding.
Master put his pistol on the coffee table, took mine out of his pocket and placed it there too. A metallic clink. ‘I’ve never shot anyone and I don’t want to start now,’ he said. ‘Unless I have to for Lorrie’s sake.’
We men of action treated O’Connor like a servant, getting him to bring us drinks and warning him to stay away from doors and windows and phones. At that point I decided I was wrong about O’Connor perhaps having been a professional footballer. I reckoned that if he’d played the game at all, it would only have been at his private school. What I’d taken for force and aggression now seemed more like bluff backed up by status and money and support staff. When Master had bailed him up after he’d left Lorrie’s office, it appeared he’d gone straight to water and had done everything he’d been told.
‘Where’d you get the gun?’ I asked.
‘The same place I got the clothes and the walking around money. Don’t worry about it. You say you’re working on finding Lorrie. Tell me. I’ve got some ideas. Maybe they fit together.’
I told him everything about the meeting with Black Andy Piper and the money. No reason not to. O’Connor brought in whisky, ice, soda and glasses. Master stared at the whisky longingly.
‘Beer,’ he said.
O’Connor produced two Crown Lagers. Master opened one and drank sparingly. ‘Been off it a while,’ he said. ‘The hard stuff’d knock me flat the way I feel.’
O’Connor poured himself a large scotch. ‘As your legal adviser, I-’
‘Shut up,’ Master snapped. ‘I’m still not sure you weren’t in on the fucking set-up.’
I mixed a weak scotch and soda with ice. ‘I don’t think he was. He probably knew something was queer before things went very far but he didn’t do anything about it.’
‘I deny it,’ O’Connor said.
Master drank a little more beer. ‘You probably wouldn’t have the guts. Okay, Hardy. Do you reckon Piper’s fair dinkum and can he do anything?’
‘Yes and yes. I wouldn’t say that except for the money he wants.’
‘How were you planning to get hold of that?’
I pointed at O’Connor, who almost spilled his drink.
Master nodded. ‘Good thinking.’
‘Impossible,’ O’Connor said. ‘That amount of money. Every bank transaction over ten thousand is-’
‘Don’t be naive, Bryce. I know people who’ll advance you that in cash in return for certain assurances, and Hardy does as well, probably.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I can think of a couple who’d advance him, not me.’
O’Connor slumped back deflated in his chair. The thought of being still further involved in this mess took away his brief flash of professional spirit. He undid his top shirt button, loosened his tie and worked on his triple scotch.
‘You said you had some ideas,’ I said to Master. ‘When you heard Lorrie had been taken you decided to get out. So you must have thought you could do something about it.’
‘That’s right. First off, I checked on the kids. Britt seems to have that under control.’
‘For now,’ I said. ‘Also Lorries office. I reckon that Fiona knows how to keep the lid on things. But the cops won’t stop asking questions about her and something’ll break pretty soon. That’ll put pressure on North. Black Andy’s my only hope. What about you?’
He turned the bottle around in his hands before tilting it up and taking another drink. The sinews were stretched tight in his throat and the easy movement of his arm underlined his fitness and flexibility. Master had demonstrated through his criminal life and just now that violence wasn’t his thing, but he’d be very dangerous indeed if it ever became his thing, and perhaps that time was getting close.
He was a long time making up his mind. He had a lot to think about, primarily who to trust. It all depended on how well he was functioning. I turned to O’Connor. ‘Brew up some coffee. Make it strong. And have you got any pep pills? You know, stuff to take to keep you awake when you’re working into the early hours on your clients’ behalf?’
He looked at me as though I was mad.
‘Nodoze,’ I said. ‘Dynamos. Caffeine tablets, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Guarana.’
I’d tried them. No effect whatever, but better than nothing. ‘Get some and give them to him with the coffee.’
Master gave me a grateful look and seemed to decide to speak. ‘Hardy, I don’t know..’
Then my mobile rang and we both jerked like stringed puppets. I pulled it from my pocket and flipped it open.
‘Hardy.’
‘Carmichael. We know your car is in for work in Surry Hills and that you’re driving a white Mitsubishi licence number WPC 832 with a red stripe on the bonnet and a roof rack. We’ve got a chopper up looking for Master and you’re on the list. We’ll find you. Be sensible.’
I cut the call.
‘What?’ Master said.
‘The cops, tracking me. O’Connor!’
He poked his head around the corner. ‘What? The coffee’s nearly ready.’
‘Put it in a thermos. Where did the police interview you?’
‘At my office. Why?’
‘They’ll search every location for every person involved. We have to get out of here.’
26
"Not me,’ O’Connor yelped. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you two lunatics.’
‘Yes you are, Bryce,’ Master said. His tiredness seemed to be in remission. ‘You’re going to climb back into your suit and get your briefcase and all the stuff that says how important you are and come with us.’
O’Connor mustered up a last shred of courage. ‘Or?’
‘Don’t try me, mate. Like Hardy says, I’m looking at life to nothing. It’d make no difference if I killed you.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I might. That’s your worry. I just might.’
‘This is insane. Let the police come. Tell them everything. They’ll find this North character and your wife and-’
‘He’ll just give in, will he and cop a few murder charges? No way, I know him and others like him. He’ll clean the decks.’
‘You can’t be sure.’
‘Can’t be sure of anything. Suppose it worked out like that. I was part of a police intelligence operation that went wrong, was probably fucking bound to go wrong. You think those guys are going to own up and let me walk away? No chance. If I go back inside I’m dead.’
‘We’re wasting time,’ I said. ‘Get the coffee and the pills and the scotch. Put them in your briefcase and anything else that shows how much money you’ve got. We’re out of here.’
We did it quickly. Master scooped up the guns and I let him. O’Connor showed good housekeeping skills and we were out of the apartment within minutes.
‘Where’s your car?’ I asked O’Connor.
