by Peter Corris
Mercifully, they made a stop in Mittagong. The Saab driver was indeed Stivens and he mounted a kind of guard while the other man fuelled them up and bought things at the service shop. I ducked into a milk bar across the road and bought the only pain-killers they stocked—soluble aspirin—and a couple of mid-sized bottles of Coke. When we were kids it was said that an Aspro and a can of coke could get you high. I’d tried it with no result and it wasn’t what I was looking for now. My father and I used to pull my diabetic mother out of her hypoglycaemic episodes with Coca-Cola so I knew the sugar content was high. I needed the energy. I took the tablets dry with a slug from the bottle.
The blond guy was taking his time in the shop and I watched Stivens smoke a cigarette and then reach into the Mercedes and pop the boot lid. He went back, took a look and slammed the lid down. That was enough. I took hold of the .38 and was almost out of the car when the other man came smartly up, tossed a few things through the open window of the Saab and started the Mercedes. Stivens gestured angrily at him but jumped in the Saab and they were off again before I even reached the street. I swore and got back behind the wheel. For all my dislike of Ramsay, I wasn’t happy about him being dumped in the boot of a car heading towards a few million hectares of bushland. Was he dead or alive? The stakes had risen and there was no way to tell about the odds.
We went through Berrima where I’d spent some time as a guest of Her Majesty not so long back. It hadn’t been too rough, but the place looked a lot better from this side of the walls. Further south I saw a sign and I suddenly knew where we were going and why. The Belanglo State Forest stretched away to the west. It was the place where Ivan Milat had buried the backpackers he’d murdered between 1989 and 1992. There was plenty of room for one more body and if it lay there long enough it was possible it could be taken for another of Milat’s victims. The police were convinced that he, and possibly an accomplice, had killed more people than had come to light.
The realisation immediately presented me with a problem. Tailing on a highway is one thing, doing it on back roads or bush tracks is quite another. The Saab slowed and the Mercedes followed suit and I hung back as far as I could while still keeping them in sight. I came over a rise and they were no longer on the road. The turn-off, onto a gravel road, came up fast and I slowed down to take it as quietly as I could without throwing up dust. Luckily the road bent sharply within a hundred metres of the turn and the cars were out of sight. I could see dust rising up ahead and estimated the distance between us at about half a kilometre. I couldn’t afford to let them get any further away than that. The road kept twisting as it descended and I blessed every bend. Stivens looked like a city type to me; with any luck he wouldn’t go any further into the bush than he felt he had to.
I finished one bottle of Coke and started on the other. The headache was down to a dull throb and I felt alert enough to tackle Stivens and his mate. I’d knocked him about once and this time I had a gun. But Milat had shot the backpackers with a rifle. I wondered how far Stivens intended to imitate him and if he had the equipment. That thought made the .38 less of a comfort.
A couple of kilometres in and the dust cloud disappeared. Had they spotted me? I drove cautiously with the gun to hand. I’m no tracker but the two cars travelling in tandem had left discernible marks on the gravel surface and I could see where they’d turned off down a fire trail. After making the turn I could see the dust in the air ahead again but this track was running straighter, making the job that much harder. I crawled, ready to stop at any moment. At least they weren’t mounting an ambush. Straining my vision I caught a glimpse of a colour that stood out against the green and brown of the bush. Silver or nearly. The Saab.
I eased off the track on firm ground under the shelter of some trees. I took a last swig of the Coke, grabbed the gun and got out of the car, easing the door to. The trees and scrub beside the track were sparse but gave me enough cover to feel safe. I moved as quickly as I could, consistent with not sounding like an elephant crashing through the jungle. I could see the two cars now. They were drawn off the track and I saw Stivens and his fair-haired mate lifting something heavy out of the boot of the Mercedes. They stood it against the car and pulled away what looked like a lot of taped garbage bags. Ramsay Hewitt, with his hands tied behind him and his eyes and mouth taped, sank to his knees. Stivens went to the Saab and reached into the back. I expected to see a rifle but instead he took out a long-handled shovel. They pulled Ramsay up but he collapsed again and became a dead weight. They dragged him towards the bushes.
I was still almost a hundred metres away with less cover to work with. I moved forward, scuttling, bent low. The two men got tired of hauling their burden and stopped on level ground just short of the tree cover. They heaved Ramsay up to his knees where he swayed but stayed upright. Fair-hair lit a cigarette and turned away, Stivens took up a sort of baseball stance with the shovel gripped in both hands.
I ran until I was only ten metres away and shouted, ‘No!’
Fair-hair spun around towards me, but Stivens had taken the shovel back and didn’t look as if he could stop his swing. I propped, levelled the pistol and shot him. He staggered but the shovel was moving and I shot him again, hitting him lower this time, around the ribs. All the power went out of him and he flopped like a puppet with snapped strings. The shovel hit the ground, bounced and struck Ramsay on the back. He fell forward and lay twitching and weeping. Fair-hair didn’t move a muscle except for letting the cigarette fall from his fingers. I pointed the gun at him. I was sweating and shaking and his solarium tan faded as he opened and closed his mouth without any sound coming out.
‘Lie down on your belly,’ I said. ‘Spread your arms and legs and don’t move or I’ll put a bullet in you. Do it!’
He dropped down as if he was glad to and spreadeagled himself—ruin for his trousers and cashmere sweater. I ignored Ramsay, who was still crying, and examined Stivens. He was alive but only just. Both bullets had hit vital organs and his breath and pulse were fading whispers. He jerked three times, blood gushed from his mouth and he died as I crouched there.
I looked across at Fair-hair who’d lifted his face from the dirt. He was sheet-white. ‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘Down!’
I moved across to where Ramsay was now lying still and silent on the grass. ‘It’s Cliff Hardy, Ramsay. You’re all right now, son. Rough on you, but you’re all right.’
His voice was a whimper. ‘Hardy?’
‘Yeah. I’ll get you a doctor soon. You’ll be okay. It’s over.’
‘Prue,’ he muttered.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Prue.’
21
I unslung the mobile from Fair-hair’s belt and after that it was cops, cops and more cops. They came from all over the place. They put my gun in a plastic bag but they didn’t have one big enough for the shovel. Ramsay was a mess, barely coherent and unable to confirm my story. They took him away to Mittagong Hospital in an ambulance. I told them he had information about some serious crimes and had come close to being murdered himself and they said they’d keep an eye on him. It didn’t help that I admitted he was the brother of the woman I was involved with—gave it a domestic feel.
Simon Talbot was the name of Stivens’ accomplice and with dirt and grass stains down his sweater and pants he didn’t quite measure up as a Saab driver. He was scared but, give him his due, he kept his mouth shut apart from stating his name and saying he wouldn’t answer questions without a lawyer present. A car took him away and he didn’t look at me once.
A senior sergeant talked to me while the scene-of-crime people got to work around the body. He wasn’t friendly.
‘You had a gun, he had a shovel.’
‘He was going to bash the bloke’s brains in, or decapitate him, or both. What was I supposed to do—throw rocks?’
‘You shot him twice.’
‘He was a big man and he had some momentum up. It took two bullets to stop him and even then …’
�
��What?’
‘He wasn’t quite dead when I got to him.’
‘Try to revive him?’
I shook my head.
‘Why not?’
I haven’t shot very many people apart from in Malaya—a handful, less, and it’s not like in the movies. It affects you and it was starting to get to me now. The headache kicked back in strongly and I had to massage my temples. I knew I was sweating and not making anything like a good impression. Also I was angry.
‘I felt his pulse,’ I said. ‘It was just there. Then he vomited a bucket of blood and that was it. What would you have done, Sarge?’
He left me alone and I sat on the ground and wished I’d never heard of Martin Price or Ramsay Hewitt. That led to complicated thoughts of Tess. Ramsay looked as if he could be heading for some sort of breakdown. Would Tess blame me and did I care? It was a low point—one of those moments when I wished I was someone else doing something else. Waste of brain power.
Eventually they bagged the body and took it away. I’d given the sergeant the names of Stankowski and Hammond at Hurstville and he’d contacted them. He came over to me, snapping his mobile shut.
‘Hurstville wants you, Hardy.’
‘I’m fucked,’ I said. ‘I’m not up to driving there.’
‘Not an option. One of our blokes’ll drive you. Nice city trip for him.’
‘Why not make it a her?’
‘You’re an arsehole. I’ve checked on you. You were in the service and you’ve been in this game for fuckin’ years. You could’ve fired over his head, but I reckon you wanted to kill him.’
I stood up and every bone from ankle to neck creaked. ‘I shouted,’ I said. ‘Pity I didn’t have a video camera and I could’ve filmed it so you might just possibly understand.’
‘Terrific. See you in court.’
‘What about my car?’
‘That beat-up Falcon? What about it?’
I discovered that I had the keys in my pocket although I didn’t remember taking them from the ignition. I tossed them to him and he fumbled the catch.
‘This is a double murder and an attempted murder and a blackmail and drugs case, Sarge,’ I said. ‘And those Hurstville people are going to kiss my arse. If I was you, I’d make sure the Glebe cops have that beat-up Falcon safe and sound in their yard by tomorrow.’
I swung away and walked towards where a uniformed officer was standing juggling a set of car keys and looking anxious to be off. Before I reached him I turned and looked back at a place I never wanted to see again.
On the drive to Hurstville, with what turned out to be a taciturn constable, I thought about what the sergeant had said. Did I want to kill Stivens? I didn’t think so—we were one-all in our personal encounters and I had no particular animosity towards him. I might’ve if I’d known that it was him who took the pot shot at me, but I didn’t know that and never would. Was it the fact that Ramsay was Tess’s brother that made me fire directly at him twice? How can you tell? In a situation like that you do what seems to need doing at the moment and all later analysis is a waste of time.
At Hurstville they put me in the same interview room I’d been in before but I insisted on a cup of coffee and some pain-killers and that both Hammond and Stankowski sit down and make a video recording of the interview. I laid it all out for them: the allegations of blackmail and drug pushing by Prue Bonham and the Lord George organisation; the likelihood that they’d got their blackmail and drugs hooks into Samantha Price, but her association with Jason Jorgensen and my investigation sponsored by her husband had made them both seem like weak links. Expendable.
Stankowski looked sceptical. ‘What about you, then?’
‘They had a go at me. If you search my place you’ll see a broken kitchen window and probably find a rifle bullet somewhere about.’ I turned my head and showed them the cuts on my ear. ‘Flying glass.’
‘And Hewitt?’ Hammond asked.
‘Another weak link. He blabbed about the blackmailing to one of the women he’d been with and when I turned up knowing about it he panicked and went to Prue Bonham. Probably didn’t know how closely she was involved but he found out. She got the Lord George heavies around to solve the problem.’
Hammond coughed and looked at Stankowski. ‘It all hangs together okay as you tell it, Mr Hardy. But there’s no real proof of anything, is there? Just say you’re right and this Stivens killed Jorgensen and Mrs Price—who’ve we got to prosecute or get information from after you’ve shot him?’
I shrugged. ‘Ramsay Hewitt’ll tell you about the blackmail and the drugs.’
Hammond smoothed the cuffs of her white silk blouse. An olive green jacket was on a hanger on the back of the door. ‘Maybe so, but I’ve been on to the hospital and he’s in a pretty bad way emotionally.’
‘Not surprising. He was facing something like a Japanese execution. What about, what’s his name—Talbot?’
‘Tighter than a fish’s arsehole. Excuse me, Beth.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Hammond said. ‘You see the problem, Mr Hardy. Without something more solid to go on it’d be hard for us to take action against Mrs Bonham or the Lord George Agency.’
I saw it clearly enough, but I saw other things besides. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘They must already be wondering why Stivens and Talbot haven’t got back or called in. If you don’t move against them now they’ll either run for cover or destroy everything that could possibly be seen as evidence.’
‘With what you’ve given us we couldn’t even get a search warrant. And as for arresting anyone—we’d be facing a lawsuit tomorrow.’
I was getting desperate as I felt it all slipping away.
‘There’s a guy called Lewis,’ I said. ‘Some kind of lawyer perhaps. He was there in the spa when Stivens tried to put the frighteners on me.’
‘So?’ Stankowski said.
‘He’s not the tough type. If you apply the right pressure he could give you what you need.’
‘Applying pressure seems to be your forte,’ Hammond said.
‘What does that mean?’
Stankowski stood and moved to what was obviously his favourite intimidating position against the wall. ‘Right now, Hardy, we’ve got a whole lot of allegations and connections of this with that and explanations coming from you and no one else. What we have hard and fast is that you shot a man to death in the Belanglo State Forest a few hours ago.’
It seemed like a lot longer ago than that. I raised my hands in surrender. ‘Look, you’d better let me call my lawyer.’
Hammond fiddled with a pen and swore when she skittered it and it put a mark on the sleeve of her blouse. ‘That’d be the lawyer who lied to us about your phone being tapped to keep you running free?’
I was too tired and wrung out to argue. ‘You wanted me here again, you got me. If you want to keep me you’re going to have to jump through some hoops. Get me a phone and turn the video off. That’s it.’
Hammond pressed a button on the console. ‘Interview terminated at 5.49 p.m.’
‘Just out of interest and off the record, Hardy,’ Stankowski said. ‘Who d’you reckon killed the golfer?’
‘At a guess, Stivens.’
‘Dead end. And Mrs Price?’
I had ideas about that but I couldn’t see any point in airing them to this pair. I shrugged. ‘Phone?’
Hammond shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think we want to keep you here any longer, Mr Hardy. I’ll make moves to have your PEA licence suspended pending further investigations.’
‘More lawyers.’
‘Inevitably.’
‘Don’t you want to solve those two murders?’
‘Oh, yes. And if Talbot and Hewitt back you up at every point and Talbot’s willing to testify, we just might solve them the way you think they should be solved and we’ll be grateful.’
A civilian working in the police station gave me a lift home. He wanted to chat about everything to do with his computer-based job and to find out why I’
d been there with the detectives who were his gods but it was my turn to be silent. It was a disappointed good Samaritan who dropped me in Glebe Point Road. I had a quick one in the Toxteth and bought a bottle of whisky for medicinal purposes. I walked the block and a bit to my street and felt the better for it. My parking space was occupied again, this time by Danni’s Honda. She got out when she saw me walking towards the house.
‘Hello, Mr Hardy.’
‘Hello, Danni. What’re you doing here?’
‘Dad sent me. You look terrible, you’d better get inside and lie down.’
‘I’ll be okay. Why did your father send you?’
She was still dressed in her jeans, tank top and denim jacket and she shivered in the cool night air. ‘Can we go in? It’s cold.’
We went into the house where it wasn’t much warmer. She followed me into the kitchen, stared at the broken window and watched me opening the whisky.
‘You looked whacked,’ she said. ‘Should you be drinking?’
I took my favourite position on the stool, back to the wall. ‘I’m drinking because I’m whacked. Want some?’
She shook her head. ‘You wouldn’t have any bourbon and Coke?’
I poured a stiff one, knocked half of it back and looked at her. ‘There’s some white wine in the fridge and I’ve got a cask of red.’
‘Yuk. I’ll drink water.’ She took a glass from the draining board and filled it at the sink. ‘Can I smoke?’
‘Yeah. Stand over by the window and blow the smoke out. Don’t blow it at me or I might weaken. You and Marty’re on better terms all of a sudden are you?’
She lit her cigarette and puffed where I’d said to puff. ‘Sort of. The police at Hurstville rang him about you and they told him what had happened out in the bush. He rang me and asked me to come over and see you. You know who killed Samantha and Jason, do you?’
