‘The police just called.’
‘Don’t ask me if I got a place you can hide—I’ve done helping old friends.’
‘You think I need a place to hide?’
‘You tell me.’
‘What have you said to the police?’
‘Nothing. Marvin wants to kill himself, who am I to stop him?’
‘You know it wasn’t just suicide.’
‘I don’t know a thing. I told the police that, I’m telling you that.’
‘You said different the other night.’
‘I think you’re mistaken.’
‘It’s a nice deal you’ve got with the police, by the sound of things.’
‘Get the fuck off my case, George.’
And none of this was to any point.
‘Did you call me last night, around two?’ I asked.
‘No.’
‘Did you give my number to anyone but Marvin?’
‘No.’
But was there a moment’s hesitation before he answered?
I said, ‘Did anyone else come looking for Marvin?’
‘What makes you think someone did?’
‘Someone found him somehow. Who knew where he was but you and me?’
‘They must have got it from you, George, ’cause I didn’t say shit to anyone.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘Maybe you didn’t have to tell them, George. You’re the one that went out there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Enough, George. Are we through here?’
‘I guess we are.’
‘Then don’t call me again.’
He hung up.
I stood there. But I hadn’t told anyone. All I’d done was drive out there. And there’d been no one following me. No one who saw me. Only . . .
I took up the phone again, dialled Jeremy’s number, and it was picked up on the second ring.
‘Jeremy?’
‘No, it’s Louise.’
‘Louise, it’s George. I need to talk to Jeremy.’
‘You can’t,’ and there was an edge to her voice. ‘He’s not here any more. Something’s happened.’
I felt myself clutching the phone in a wave of panic. He was dead. Like Charlie and Marvin before him, someone had appeared at his door, a man with a bottle of vodka in his hand, he was rounding us all up . . .
‘What?’ I asked, faint.
‘He’s in hospital, George. Since the night after you were here.’
‘What happened?’
There was a pause, and I heard the clink of glass against the mouthpiece. She was drinking. ‘It’s the leukaemia. The doctors say this is it, George. No more remissions.’
‘The leukaemia? That’s all?’
‘What do you mean, that’s all? He’s dying!’
But I was almost laughing. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How bad is it?’
‘He’s barely conscious . . . but, George, he was hoping you’d call. He said he wants to see you.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t know. But there’s something he wants to tell you. He seemed pretty worried about it.’
‘Tell me where he is.’
I wrote down the name of the hospital and the room number. The Royal Brisbane. I stared at that a moment, wondering about the way fate was working here.
‘Listen, Louise, you didn’t call me last night, did you?’
‘No. Why?’
But I only said goodbye and tossed the phone aside.
I looked out at the day. Thank Christ for leukaemia, I thought. Thank the Lord for something as natural as cancer. I needed to keep my head clear. Clarke wasn’t everywhere.
A police car came along the street, slowed in front of the motel. I could just make out the driver. He was looking up at the motel, as though checking the number. I watched as the car parked at the opposite kerb. More detectives. Senior men come to interview me, as Detective Kelly had warned. But what could I tell them other than what I’d already told Detective Kelly himself?
The door opened and a plain-clothes detective stepped out. He turned and looked up at the motel. It was only for a moment, then I was reeling away from the window, tripping over the couch and falling to the floor. My mind was ice and my heart was thudding and I lay dead still on the carpet. Had he seen me? He hadn’t looked directly at my window, he wouldn’t even know which window was mine, surely. If he hadn’t seen me then I could hide, I could run, I could do something.
It was seconds before I realised why these thoughts were racing through my head, before I realised why the sight of the detective’s face had sent me backing away instinctively, thinking without reason of escape. It was seconds before I realised what it all really meant.
Because I’d seen him before.
Not like this—not getting out of a police car, pulling on his suit coat and grimly scanning the street. No. Instead I’d seen him as a harmless looking middle-aged man, dressed in a faded T-shirt and shorts, pulling a fishing rod from the boot of a car, and gazing out at the ocean from a Redcliffe beach. And not following me, not watching me, not concerned with me at all.
THIRTY-SIX
I lay on the carpet, the couch between me and the window.
I waited for the knock on the door.
Was it locked? I peered up. Of course. It was still locked from the night before, the security chain attached. He couldn’t just walk in. But it was only a chain, a thin chain.
I listened. Blood hammered in my ears, beating with my thoughts. The fisherman was a police detective, the fisherman was a police detective. And he’d been waiting outside Marvin’s place. But how was that possible? The police hadn’t known where Marvin was until this morning.
My body already knew the answer. It’s why I was on the floor, why I’d found myself there even before there’d been time to think. The police in general hadn’t known where Marvin was—only this policeman in particular had known. And he hadn’t told any of his colleagues.
Knuckles rapped on wood. I lay frozen, staring across the room. There was a fish-eye lens in the centre of the door, but I wasn’t going to move, wasn’t going to risk a sound. I waited. The knuckles rapped again, imperative.
‘George? You in there?’
A police voice. Official.
I waited in silence, listening for every movement, every noise. A car idled by in the street, then suddenly changed gear and roared off. Silence again.
Another three knocks.
‘George? It’s Detective Jeffreys here. It’s about Marvin. I was told by Detective Kelly that you were expecting me.’
Did he know I was in here? He couldn’t know. The windows were mirrored. Impossible to see through in bright midday sun.
I waited. Detective Jeffreys. A senior man, Detective Kelly had said. He’d taken over the investigation. He was in charge of finding out what had happened to Marvin. But if he’d already been there, even before I was . . .
Or had he been?
Make sure you’re not followed.
The thoughts were racing. The other detectives knew about my motel. If this Detective Jeffreys was looking for Marvin, he could have found out from them where I was staying. He could have waited across the street, followed me when I pulled out, and I would have led him straight there. When I’d seen him out at Redcliffe he’d only just been opening the boot of his car. He might’ve parked only moments earlier. He might have been right behind me all the way. A policeman who was looking for Marvin, but who didn’t tell anyone else what he was doing. And now Marvin was dead. It was Clarke’s doing, I knew that. But if Detective Jeffreys . . . what if he didn’t just work for the police?
You think the police aren’t still onside with someone like him? You don’t think he hasn’t still got one or two of them lined up?
And I’d led him straight there. All he would’ve had to do was wait till I was gone. Put in a call to Clarke, tell him Marvin’s address. And wait.
Charlie had already been dealt with. Now Marvin. I was the on
ly one left who knew anything about it all.
I waited on the floor. There were no more knocks. No more words.
Was he still out there? And what did he want with me? Would it be just to talk, to find out exactly how much I knew? And if he found out just how much I knew—what then? Would he take me down to the station, where there were other police, where we could both be seen?
Or was there another man waiting somewhere? Nearby, perhaps. Clarke himself, a glass of vodka in his hand, his mind still half rotted with the alcohol. Waiting to tie up the last loose end. All he needed to do was sit there until Detective Jeffreys brought me to him. Then the detective would leave and it would be just me and Clarke in the room. I would be face to face with the man who had taken Charlie to the substation, who had come calling on Marvin in the middle of the night. Or perhaps Detective Jeffreys would stay. Perhaps he was always there.
And suddenly I was thinking of beer cans scattered on a cement floor. Bottles of vodka for one man, cans of beer for another.
There was still no sound. Was he gone? I remained motionless, counting seconds. Sixty. One hundred and twenty. One hundred and eighty.
Surely he was gone. I crawled around the couch, my chest to the floor. From this level I could see the building opposite and the tops of trees and a spread of roofs leading off to the beautiful warm blue sky, a normal day out there, people living without cares . . . but I couldn’t see the street. I lifted myself slowly. There was the police car, but it was empty, it hadn’t moved. Where was the detective? I lifted myself further and looked straight into his eyes.
He was standing in the middle of the street, arms on his hips, staring up at my window.
I dropped to the floor again. Could he see through the windows? I lifted myself slowly again. He hadn’t moved. He was studying my window, frowning. His suit coat was open and beneath it a white shirt spread over a large belly. He was bigger than he’d looked when I’d seen him the day before, and nothing seemed relaxed or harmless about him now, but it was the same man. I stared straight down at him, safe behind my glass, then he turned around, walked back to his car.
I felt a surge of elation which immediately died. He’d stopped again. He glanced up at my window once more, then came back towards the motel. He had seen me. But no, he was heading across to the main entrance of the building, the reception office. What could he want there?
The manager. He was looking for the manager. He was a police officer, all he had to do was show his badge to the manager and ask to have my room opened. The manager wouldn’t hesitate. They could be up here in moments with the key. The chain was still on the door, but once they saw the chain they’d know for sure I had to be inside somewhere.
I got to my feet, adrenaline surging. I stared down at the office. I had only seconds, a minute or two at most. Get away, that was the thing, get to my car. But my car was two flights down in the garage, the police car was parked right across the road from the driveway. There was no way I could drive out of there before they came out of the office. The detective knew what I looked like, he knew my car.
On foot then. Just get out and run. But it was the same problem. There was no back entrance that I knew of, all the stairwells opened out to the front. I’d be on the street, out in the open. He’d spot me in seconds. Find a linen closet, then, a storage room, anything, a hole to hide in. But that was ridiculous too. Rooms like that would be locked, and I didn’t even know where they were to start with. I’d be stumbling around the hallways like a moth. It was only a motel, there was nowhere to hide.
The manager! He’d be there as well when they opened the room. He wouldn’t just hand the key over, he’d come up and open the door himself. The detective couldn’t do anything if the manager was standing there, a witness. But then what was the detective telling him, down in the office? That I was a criminal, a dangerous felon, someone who had to be apprehended and dragged away? Would the manager do anything to stop that, no matter what I said?
Call Detective Kelly! Get real police over here. I clutched at the phone, my other hand fumbling at my wallet. But Detective Kelly couldn’t be here instantly. It would take ten minutes, fifteen. Anything could have happened by then. Would he believe me anyway? This was his fellow officer. It didn’t matter, he was my best chance. I found the card, punched in numbers. My hands were shaking. I hit the wrong buttons. I swore and dropped the card, bent and picked it up. I went to dial again and my fingers froze on the first button.
Down on the street, the detective had emerged from the office.
He was alone. He stared up at my window and then back at reception, shaking his head. I could sense the anger even from a distance. It hadn’t worked. The manager wasn’t coming with the key. Maybe the manager was out, maybe there was no one in the office. It was a small enough place, there was no regular room service. The desk wasn’t attended every second.
It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the man down there didn’t have the key. He was walking back to his car. I watched him, hardly breathing, the phone still in my hand. He opened the door and climbed in. I watched. He didn’t close the door. He sat there with one foot anchored to the road. He looked up at my window. He reached into his coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up.
Dread descended again. He wasn’t going anywhere. And sooner or later the manager would come back. He’d get the key eventually.
I looked down at the phone. I hung up and then dialled again, Detective Kelly’s number. Maybe I had enough time now. The tones rang as I watched out the window. The man down on the street flicked ash onto the bitumen and scanned the footpaths. The phone clicked up.
‘Kelly’s desk,’ said a female voice.
‘Is Detective Kelly there?’ I was almost whispering.
‘Not at the moment. Can I take a message?’
I thought feverishly. Was there a message I could leave? Could I explain everything to this woman, make her believe me and send someone? No. Maybe I could make something up, then, an emergency, report a crime in progress or something, get police sent anyway. But even if the police came, what then? He was a superior officer. He could send them away. They’d go soon enough when they saw nothing was happening. And if I came out, delivered myself to them, he would take over. He couldn’t do anything right there and then, perhaps, but later. No matter what happened, he wasn’t going to simply disappear, and no matter what happened, I couldn’t just slip away unobserved. It would be the two of us again in the end. And then Clarke, waiting for me somewhere. Vodka pulsing in his veins like a disease.
‘Sir?’ said the woman.
And in a flash I had it.
‘Is a Detective Jeffreys based there?’
‘Yes he is, but . . . let me just check . . . no, I don’t think he’s about either.’
‘I have an extremely urgent message for him. Is there any way you could reach him, right this instant?’
‘Well, if he has his phone with him. Or if he’s near a radio, maybe.’
He was near one all right, within a foot of one.
‘This is important. Tell him George Verney called. He’s looking for me, urgently. Trust me, he’ll want to get this message. Tell him. . .’ I cast about for an address, a convincing one, and that came in a flash too. ‘Tell him I’m at Lindsay Heath’s club in the Valley. I’m waiting here right now with Lindsay. He’ll know exactly what I mean. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, sir. But I can’t guarantee he’ll get this immediately.’
‘Just send it. Please.’
I hung up and let the phone fall to the floor, my eyes not moving from the police car out on the street. Would it work? If the message got through, it should. It would sound natural enough to the man waiting down there. He would know that Detective Kelly had already told me to expect him. True, Kelly hadn’t mentioned Jeffreys’ name, but Jeffreys himself wouldn’t know that. Nor was there any reason why I should be suspicious of him, or in hiding from him. After all, I’d made no sign that I’d no
ticed him, there on the beach at Redcliffe, I’d scarcely glanced his way. So in his mind there was no reason for me to act in any way underhanded. And bringing Lindsay into it made sense as well. It was natural enough that I would go and see Lindsay, and the police knew all about his club, it was safe territory from their point of view.
I watched, time standing still. The detective finished his cigarette, flicked it across the road. His eyes moved continuously.
It was agony. Didn’t he have a phone with him? How long did it take to get a call over the radio? But then suddenly he was leaning back into the car. I couldn’t see what he was doing. Was there a phone in there, sitting on the passenger seat, ringing? Had the radio squawked his name, was he responding to it? All I could see was one foot, still resting on the bitumen. Then he leaned back out again. He stared up at my window, his face set hard. His hand scraped across his chin. The call had come through, in one fashion or another, but he hadn’t bought it, not completely. Some instinct was warning him. All he had to do was try the manager one more time.
Abruptly he swung his leg in behind the wheel, pulled the door shut, and within moments the car was speeding back off down the street. I leant against the window, my face to the glass, and watched until it disappeared around the corner. He was gone.
My legs were shaking, relief sending me sagging against the wall. I had time, I could get out now, disappear. And let Lindsay handle the shit when they found me nowhere near his place. They wouldn’t believe him now anyway, no matter what he told them, even the truth.
Tyres screeched.
From the other end of the street came another car. It was dark grey, a luxury sedan. It sped up, u-turned, and parked exactly where the police car had been.
I stared at it, sickened. It was just a car, it could have been any car, but it wasn’t. The detective had gone and this car had immediately taken its place. The vigilance hadn’t lapsed, just changed hands. I hadn’t fooled anyone.
I felt exhausted. Nervous energy jangled in my limbs, but there was no more surge, no more survival instinct. Only fear, cold and draining. I didn’t have a thought left.
And yet it wasn’t a police car, not even an unmarked one. No police drove cars like that. Nor could I see the driver. The doors did not open and the windows were black. I could no more see who was inside than whoever it was could see me, and yet I could sense the presence in there, staring up, just as I was staring down—two watchers hidden by tinted glass, confronting each other across fifty feet of heat-shimmering air.
Last Drinks Page 28
