by JR Carroll
Dennis said, ‘Laszlo.’
‘What about him?’
A little cog moved in Dennis, clicked into place. I’m going to see you out the back door, mate. I’m going to teach you not to fuck with Ken Butts. It was the way he said ‘fuck’ that struck him, as if it were a knife-thrust: just how it sounded on tape. ‘Ken Butts?’
Rex lit a cigarette end-on-end, making Dennis wait, then said, ‘Good guess, flatfoot. Why couldn’t you manage that earlier?’
‘He wasn’t in the picture. There was no reason to connect him with Wheems.’
‘So why is there now?’
‘You tell me.’
Rex said, ‘Jacob Wheems had known Butts for a long time, since they worked on a building site together. Butts was a union official then, back in the ’70s, and did some favours for Wheems, got him his ticket or somesuch. They obviously maintained their association, because one of them, Wheems probably, got the idea of bringing in this … Pink Rock, and got his old workmate onto the team. Kalamazoo.’ Rex laughed.
‘There was no such company. We checked.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t a company—just what they called themselves. A joke.’ Rex laughed through his nose. ‘Butts was an asset. He was a strongman, knew his way around—he knew customs officers, he knew police.’ Rex smiled. ‘You’ve no idea how much he loathes you, by the way. It’s a popular club, isn’t it? The Anti-Gatz League. In prison he works out with weights for hours every day, in the vain hope that one day he will get his hands on you.’
‘He won’t. He’s dying, from Parkinson’s.’
‘Yes, I know. Sad. Pathetic, really. Still. That’s his funeral, right?’
Dennis didn’t answer. He badly wanted a cigarette, but didn’t want to distract himself from the two guns, or Rex. If Rex was to be believed, Wheems-Laszlo-Campbell becomes Wheems-Hammond-Butts-Campbell, with neither end of the chain knowing each other. It was just possible. Don Hammond had retired in mid-1988, before time, and disappeared interstate, somewhere around Sydney—Whale Beach, that was it. He’d sent them a photograph of himself, sitting on the end of a jetty, fishing, face turned smiling towards the camera. On the back he’d said that he’d adjusted to the life of a beach bum very nicely, that he enjoyed taking his breakfast on the terrace each morning. The photograph was pinned to the noticeboard, and some wit wrote ‘Bronze Whaler’ on it, with an arrow pointing to Hammond’s head. But then a lot of senior coppers retired early about then, for the big lump sum, many heading north as Don Hammond did. Why wouldn’t they?
‘What about Teddy Van Vliet? Where does he fit in?’
‘Teddy? He’s dead—but I suppose you know that.’ Rex glanced at the shotgun, trying to make the connection—but Teddy was stabbed, not shot. He gave up thinking about it. ‘A long time ago when I was a junior barrister I had cause to defend Teddy—his cause celebre.’
‘Pommy Dave.’
‘Just so. He got off lightly and was immensely grateful. So he ought to have been—he deserved life for that. An unsavoury piece of business with a garden instrument. Anyway, I knew Teddy pretty well, knew he’d do anything for money. And he was in my debt—never paid off his fucking bill. But of course I couldn’t make the approach myself.’
‘You paid him to murder my wife. Fuck you.’
‘Calm down, flatfoot. We’re just talking now, like reasonable men. I wish it had always been so. But you know, after I went to prison, a great deal changed for me. My family disinherited me, my darling steadfast wife decamped with all the liquid assets she could lay her greedy hands on and took my lovely children away, telling them that daddy was a monster. I haven’t seen them in six years, wouldn’t even know where they are. It’s tough, flatfoot. I don’t blame them, of course—who wants anything to do with a daddy that chops up people?’ A cold anger suddenly blazed in his eyes, his lips trembled, then were still. When he was fully composed again, Rex went on. ‘So there’s that. Naturally I was disbarred, and needless to say all my supposed friends vanished—except Graham. He alone has kept me going through all this … this fucking hell that never ends, that never will end. He is my rock. He is all I have.’ Rex reached a hand across, not looking at Graham. Graham enfolded it in his and Dennis saw the two hands squeeze tightly. Rex was on the verge of crying. He pulled out a handkerchief with his free hand and blew his nose violently, then made an effort to pull himself together.
‘And of course I am now financially ruined. Bankrupt. Disgraced, as the newspapers are fond of saying. I, who sold so many copies for the bastards, who had realised every dream a man could have. In prison I beg for change just to buy cigarettes. Unlike you I am not a physical man. I can’t defend myself against savages. I am forced to submit to acts of fellatio and buggery on a daily basis. How would you like that, flatfoot?’ He looked challengingly, hatefully, across the table, wet eyes shining. ‘Some time ago I tested HIV-positive. Now I have full-blown AIDS. Sounds like a maggot, doesn’t it? Except that in this case you’re the maggot, not me.’ Again, that cold-eyed stare, then, ‘I can feel it taking hold. I may live for another year, perhaps longer, the last few months of which will presumably be spent in a prison hospital just … waiting to die. So that’s that, isn’t it? How angry would you be?’
Dennis shook his head. ‘I’m sorry about that, Rex, the HIV thing. But even if what you say is true, you’re wrong to single me out for the blame—wrong to take it out on my wife. She was completely innocent. I didn’t even know her then.’
Rex said through gritted teeth, ‘You pursued me. You ran me to ground—fucking persecuted me! You couldn’t bear the humiliating defeat I inflicted upon you. You couldn’t bear the plain fact of your own … inadequacy. You took away my life. You took everything I had, and gave me bluestone walls instead. So, an eye for an eye. Your wife for my children. Your squalid little pub for my lost career and wealth, my name! Your life for mine, flatfoot.’
‘Your blood in the syringe?’
‘Yes.’ He said this bitterly, knowing it had not reached its mark.
‘The last part isn’t going to work out, Rex.’
Rex sighed deeply, a sigh of unspeakable sadness and resignation. ‘Apparently not.’ He eyed the guns. So did Dennis. He wondered if Rex was thinking of making a move for one of them.
‘Pipic?’
Rex shrugged. ‘Some rough mate of Teddy’s. They did time together. Teddy needed someone on the spot, to chart your wife’s movements. A bit player.’
‘Then he arranged for Teddy to take his truck.’
‘As I understand it. But I left all that detail to Teddy.’
A long silence descended on the table, broken only by the sound of Rex smoking. Dennis crossed his arms, looking at the guns. And so, he thought, here I am. It comes down to this. But to what, exactly? Feelings, doubts, stirred, then fought in him. Words revolved, repeating themselves: Auspicious beginnings. Well done, digger. Shot through the heart, would you say? Well done, digger. Well done. He stared at the guns, touched them both with outstretched fingers. Confusion, uncertainty rendered him lifeless, inert: a dead feeling encroached, bringing a heaviness to his limbs. He began to wonder who he was, or had been; what mattered and what didn’t. Nothing settled. When he finally lifted his face from the guns Rex was staring at him, a cigarette held elegantly in the air.
‘So what are you going to do now, flatfoot?’ he said, then twisted his face sideways, presenting a profile, to draw on the cigarette. ‘You look all out of ideas.’
That was enough. Dennis knew what to do now. He picked up the Walther, aimed deliberately and fired once.
TWENTY-FOUR
Graham snapped back in his chair, arms outflung and head thrown up. The bullet had crashed through the centre of his forehead, making porridge of his brain. Now he stared at the candelabra over the table. At the same time Rex jumped involuntarily sideways, raising his hands, sucking air.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. Then he covered his face. ‘Oh, no.’
Dennis said nothing. C
ordite drifted into his nostrils.
Rex took his hands away, looked at Graham, then said, stupidly, ‘Why? Why did you have to do that?’
‘How many reasons do you need?’
Rex shook his head. ‘He only acted for me.’ Then, more defiantly, ‘I am your enemy, flatfoot.’
‘So was Graham. You gravely misused him, Rex. You wound him up.’
Rex’s mouth formed a snarl. ‘I know why you killed him. You have to kill me now. I’m a witness. You’ve committed yourself.’
‘That’s true too.’
‘Your resolve was weakening. Admit it.’
‘I don’t have to admit anything to you.’ He looked at Graham. Blood trickled from the wound, making its way down the contours of his face, past his nose, then dripped from his chin onto his shirt. ‘I’ll tell you something, Rex. You’ve had your say, now you can listen to me. It’s not much fun lying taped up on a floor while some bastard holds your face and tells you in no uncertain terms what lies ahead once he’s stuck that fucking needle into you. I don’t forget, and I don’t forgive. But he blew it, see—he was enjoying himself too much. And now a very good friend of mine is rigged up to a life-support system that may or may not save him. I’ve heard all your self-pitying shit, and frankly it doesn’t impress me. Everything that’s happened to you, you brought on yourself. You had everything—but it wasn’t enough, was it? You had to have more. Rex Campbell always had to have more. You were a self-loving son of a bitch. You still are. Well, bad luck, Rex.’ Dennis stood up, pushing back his chair with a loud scrape. ‘So life’s tough. Think you’ve got a fucking mortgage on that? Wrong. Maybe all the things you said about me are right, and maybe you didn’t kill Wheems, but you sure as Christ deserve what’s coming to you now. Get up.’
‘Why? What are you going to do?’
‘You forgot to say “flatfoot”, Rex. What’s wrong, feeling scared?’ He gestured for Rex to stand. Rex did so, slowly.
‘Now come around here.’
Rex did so, cautiously, keeping his eyes on Dennis and the gun in his hand.
Dennis stood back, making room. ‘Sit where I was.’
Rex lowered himself into the chair, looking over his shoulder, wondering when the blast would come. It didn’t.
Dennis said, ‘My wife—her name was Karen, by the way—meant a lot to me. With her I had two years of undiluted pleasure. Not much of a score out of forty-five, is it?’
Rex was trying not to listen, covering his face and ears. Dennis slapped the back of his head; Rex jumped as if he’d been shot.
‘I saw them put her into the bag, Rex. I saw what she looked like. Fuck you!’ He punched Rex in the back of the neck, twice. Rex fell forward on the table, protecting his head with his hands.
‘Fuck you!’
Rex didn’t move. Dennis shaped to punch him again. Rex was quivering. Dennis held his shaking fist still—not easily.
When he’d steadied a little he said, ‘Listen, Rex. If you had any guts you’d do the honourable thing. Aristocrats like yourself are supposed to be good at that.’
Rex looked around his shoulder at Dennis. His face trembled, his upper lip shone in the light. He did not look like an aristocrat. But he seemed to understand. Dennis removed the clip from the Walther. Rex watched, shrinking from the harsh metallic sounds. Dennis emptied all the rounds from the clip and put those in his pocket, then ejected the round that was already in the chamber into his hand.
‘Here’s how it goes, Rex. Watch. Press the round into the clip, like so. Make sure it’s facing the right way. Push the clip in—so—hit it home with the butt of your palm—so. Next, work the round into the breech—like this—draw the hammer back, all the way, until it clicks into place. Then you’re ready to go.’
Rex tried to lick his lips, making a dry, rasping sound. He had no saliva.
‘I suggest you aim up through the roof of your mouth. That way there can be no mistake. People have tried to do this and lived, you know. They lose their nerve at the last second and shoot themselves through the cheek.’
Rex nodded, as if Dennis had just imparted a valuable tip. He seemed not to have grasped his situation. It struck Dennis that he was probably sky-high on some form of medication or drug. He took the gun apart once more and laid the separate components in front of Rex. Rex, gazing upon them, dragged himself into something like a conscious state.
‘My uncle, Donald Campbell, used to tell me that flying across the salt pans of Lake Eyre at three hundred miles an hour in Bluebird was above all a deeply spiritual experience. He said he always felt that if he could just go that little bit faster he would break through into a different plane of existence, that he would actually look upon the face of God.’ He smiled bleakly to himself and added, ‘Of course I was too young then to understand what he meant. That he was speaking about his death wish.’
Dennis said, ‘He got his wish’.
Rex nodded sadly. ‘God, that was a man. How I miss him. No one can ever know.’
Dennis waited, then said, ‘Do it, Rex. Maybe you’ll see your uncle on the other side.’
Rex regarded Dennis as if to ascertain whether or not he was mocking him, but Dennis kept a straight face, staring directly into Rex’s unblinking eyes.
Dennis picked up the shotgun. ‘I’ll be just outside the door. You’ve got thirty seconds, Rex. Then I’ll come in and do it for you—with this.’
Rex’s eyes fell on the shotgun, then he surveyed the Walther parts, as if trying to remember how it all went again. Then he put a hand on his brow and closed his eyes, lips moving slightly, as if he was trying to pray.
‘Of course, you may decide to try and take me on instead. Fine, your choice. But remember you’ve got one round, one only. And I’d back a shotgun against a pistol every time.’
Rex faced Dennis squarely and said, ‘You spell it all out only too clearly, flatfoot.’ He looked more spectral than alive at that moment.
Dennis left the room, shut the door and stood a couple of metres from it. When he could hear tinkering going on inside he began to count. At nineteen the Walther discharged, then came a dull thump. He went back in.
Rex Campbell was lying on his side on the floor. His chair had been overturned. The back of Rex’s skull had blown out and brain matter clung to the wall and ceiling. The Walther, blood-spattered, lay a metre from his right hand. Dennis moved quickly. He placed the shotgun in Graham’s dead hand, getting a good set of prints, then put it on the table. He found a bottle of Scotch, poured two shots, drank them both. Then he put one of the glasses in Graham’s hand, deposited it in front of him and repeated the process with Rex. Then after getting Graham’s prints on it too he stood the bottle in the middle of the table. Rex had been lined up directly opposite Graham—there would be no problem with the bullet’s trajectory. He took a last look around the room.
Standing in the hallway, he decided that an inspection of the bedroom might be in his interests. It was. In one of the drawers there was a diary, an expensive gilt-edged one, in which either Graham or Rex had outlined the details of their campaign against Dennis. There were pages and pages of it, scribblings, plans, suggestions, along with addresses and phone numbers of people whose identities were not revealed. While he was reading through this, the phone rang. He waited for it to stop. When it did, after twelve rings, his heart was racing. Who would call at this hour? A curious neighbour who thought he’d heard shots? He searched quickly but carefully through the rest of the room, found nothing except harmless letters in and out of H.M. Prison Pentridge. The two address books he found did not appear to contain any information relating to him. He left those, taking only the diary. Then before leaving the room he remembered the .38 rounds in his pocket, and dropped them into the drawer from which he’d taken the diary. Police would consider it reasonable that they had only loaded two into the clip, but it might look odd if there were no other bullets in the house.
He slid the broken chain out of its slot and put it into his pocke
t. The other section, fixed to the doorjamb, would have to stay there. It was a fresh break, and looked it. However, it needn’t necessarily have been broken tonight—perhaps burglars did it days ago. That would be a little puzzler for investigating detectives. An unexplained mystery. He went out and closed the door quickly. It was just on midnight.
On his way back to the car he heard a rustling in the vacant lot, and got a fright. The sheep bleated in the dark. Dennis hurried on. He drove past the house, around obscure, partly-populated streets that would eventually get him back to the Eastern Freeway. When he got back to the motel he grabbed his belongings, threw them in the back seat and left, having paid in advance for the extra day. He got on the road. He could smell gunpowder on his clothes—they would have to be cleaned or thrown out later. When he hit the Calder Freeway he wound up the Magna to a comfortable hundred and ten, then engaged overdrive.
He did not think he had made any mistakes. The Walther, which had not been fired for at least two years and which, in all likelihood, had never been used in the commission of a crime, could probably be traced to its original owner, but its more recent history would be difficult, if not impossible, to establish. Certainly there was no way it could be connected to Dennis—and no police at City West would want to own up to it. The shotgun was a different proposition. Smart cops might tie it in with the one in Teddy’s boot, then just maybe make the leap to the Pyrenees hold-up. That was fine. Police would be pleased to get so many outstanding matters cleaned up in one go. Someone might even get a nice pat on the back.
TWENTY-FIVE
He made fast time to Ballarat, stopped there with the motor running in the main street, deciding, then swung left down the Buninyong Road. Why let him off the hook? Why go through all this and then leave unfinished business? In five minutes he came to the roadside mailbox with the name Pipic painted on it, looked down the long drive to the unlit house, then drove in, stopping next to the Ford 350.
