by Peter Corris
“… bastard … followed us from the pub …”
“Right. But …”
He threw the wood and I ducked. He ran down the platform, hopping over the uneven surface like a rabbit. I went after him—six paces and I caught my foot and fell. I sprawled on the ground, grazed my hand again and winded myself thoroughly. Lifting my head, I saw him running, jumping, and skittering with terrific speed, down the platform, past the office, and out of the freight yard.
I recovered my breath, picked the dirt out of my palms and went back to the freight car. Chris hadn’t moved; his bony chest was still fluttering and there was a thin, reedy sound coming from his throat. I made sure his tongue wasn’t going to go down it, and ran back to the office, where the kid with the beard and the personality problem was rolling himself a steadying joint.
“Phone!” I shouted.
He pointed to the floor: the telephone sat on a pile of tattered directories that went back to the Commonwealth Games year and beyond. I swore and fumbled with the mouldy, stuck-together pages. He got his joint going and looked at me with amusement.
“Hospital?” he said.
I nodded and he recited the number. I rang it and got a highly efficient-sounding Emergency service. I told it I needed an ambulance and that I’d better have the police as well while we were at it.
“What’s going on, man?”
“It’s visiting time,” I said. “You’ve had me and the young bloke who ran past. Now you’re going to get the police and an ambulance.”
“Shit!” He pinched out the butt and put the inch or so of stained stub in his mouth. “Well, shit. I think there’s a train due later this morning.”
“That’ll make your day,” I said.
I ran the rusty water in a tap outside the office, cleaned my face and hands and waited for officialdom.
It came with sirens, flashing lights, starched uniforms, and shiny buttons. The ambulance attendants seemed to think that Chris would pull through. When the cops started on me I doubted if I would make it. They carted me down to a steel and glass tower in the centre of the city, which was their headquarters; I wouldn’t say they were gentle about it, but at least no one slammed the car door on my fingers. They left me in a bare room ten storeys up, and let me look out over their city and think about my sins. The river ran a straight course through the city and then meandered away to the east. I imagined I could see its muddy banks, a malarial plain, a fringe of mangroves where it entered the sea. It put me in a mood to leave Queensland to the Queenslanders—maybe that was the idea.
An Inspector Jervis, who was terse but not overtly hostile, listened to my story after looking at my licence to enquire privately. I told him that I’d been hired to look for Chris Guthrie who’d been out of touch with his family for a worrying period of time. It was close enough to the truth for me to tell it without sweating. He didn’t like it much, particularly the reflection it cast on the organisation of which he was a proud member.
“Didn’t this Guthrie think we could handle a missing persons case up here, eh?”
Good point, I thought, don’t press it. He didn’t; I took my cue from Jervis and talked as little as possible. I’d left my gun and burglary tools in the Laser; no one asked me how I was getting around and it seemed like a good thing to keep quiet about. They didn’t like me; the only thing they liked about me was my return ticket to Sydney and Jervis suggested I use it, soon.
A phone call to the hospital confirmed the paramedic’s impression—Chris was in what they called “shock” from a heroin overdose combined with low physical vitality, but he wasn’t in danger. The hospital wanted to know who was going to pay the bills since it was an out-of-state matter. I gave them Paul Guthrie’s name and address, which I’d already given to the cops, because it would have been me in the hospital as well if I hadn’t.
By midday I was on the street again, and by five past in a pub. I had two quick drinks, jostling with counter-lunching policemen. I used the phone in the pub to book a flight back to Sydney and to call a cab to take me back to the freight yard. There was no sign that a train had arrived or ever would again. The hire car had been sitting in the sun for four hours and its vinyl coverings threatened to revert to the original composition of the material. I wound all the windows down and sweltered my way back to Paddington.
The insects were shrill in the overgrown garden and I had to knock very loudly to be heard over the blasting rock music coming from inside the house. Not like the other night—I could kick the door in now and no one would hear. I felt like doing it just on principle; kowtowing to cops isn’t my favourite sport. But the noise level dropped and I got the same female voice quavering through the door.
“Yes?”
“Federal police,” I shouted.
“What do you want?”
“Open the door, madam, or we’ll force it.” I thought the “we” was a good touch.
The door opened and a young woman with strained-back hair and a worried mouth looked at me through thick-lensed glasses.
“There’s only one of you. I want to see your ID.”
I stuck my foot inside the door and gripped its edge. “I’m not a policeman, young lady, although you said I sounded like one the other night.”
Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Oh!”
“Yeah, oh. Now I found Chris Guthrie where you suggested—down at the goods yard. He had a needle hanging out of his arm and now he’s in the hospital. His father hired me to find him and I’m going to look in his room.”
“I’m going to call the police.”
“I’ve just come from them and they wouldn’t want to see me again. You can’t call from here because there’s no phone. By the time you call from outside I’ll be gone. Now, why don’t you just let me in, and save yourself a lot of bother? You can be back at the books in ten minutes. You call the police and you can forget about studying for today.”
She moved aside and let me in.
“Chris’s room’s through here.” I followed her down the passage to a bedroom near the back of the house. The rock music was soft now and the place smelled of incense and coffee. They were good sounds and smells and I let up on the authoritarian manner.
“Nice place,” I said. “What’re you studying?”
“Politics.”
“Always study with the music so loud?”
“Yes, it drowns out the real world.”
“Ah. In here?”
She nodded and left me to it. The room was small but well lit from a big window. There was a mattress on the floor with bedding neatly folded on it. A student’s desk had books and papers on it and a pen—it looked as if it had been got up from abruptly and never returned to. That was the neat half of the room: on the other side there was a big armchair covered with dirty clothes; there were food scraps balanced on the arms, empty glasses and cans on the floor beside it. There were wadded-up tissues and a bloodstained handkerchief. Between the cushion and the side of the chair I found a plastic cap of a disposable syringe. The room looked as if it had been inhabited by two different people.
I went out, and located the student sitting with a pile of books and notes at the kitchen table. The rock was still soft. She looked up, exasperated.
“I thought you said you’d go?”
“In a minute. What happened to Chris?”
She shrugged. “He went on to drugs.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must know something.”
“He went away for a while, a week maybe. When he came back he looked very bad, sick. That’s when he started on the stuff. He was only here from time to time—he’d paid some rent in advance.”
“He didn’t say anything about it?”
“He once said it wasn’t his fault, and another time he said he was ashamed of it. But they all say that.”
Sympathy wasn’t her big thing. I took out the photo of the dark man and held it out for her. “Have you ever seen him?”
<
br /> “Yes, he was here. I think he’s the one who brought Chris in the first time he was sick. He was around a couple of times after that.”
“Hear his name?”
“No.” She reached out her hand for the knob of the ghettoblaster and I left her to impair her hearing.
11
At the airport I put through a call to Paul Guthrie. I located him at his city office.
“Have you seen Chris?”
“I’ve seen both of them. Don’t be alarmed, but Chris is in the hospital. He’s okay.” That was stretching it a bit, but a long distance phone call is no way to handle the subtleties. I gave him the details of the hospital and the ward and the businessman in him let me finish. “His mother should come up here, perhaps,” I said. “I’ll give you the details when I get back to Sydney.”
“Who hurt him? How did he get in hospital?”
“He hurt himself, Mr Guthrie. But he had some help. Ray’s in worse shape in some ways. I can’t explain now, but he may think his brother’s dead. He thinks I’m an enemy and he knows you hired me.”
“But Ray’s not hurt? Or sick?”
“No, but he’s sort of out of control. You’d better take some precautions.”
“Ray wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Maybe not, it’s hard to say. If he arrives, just try to keep him calm, and stay calm yourself.”
“Do you know what the hell this is all about, Hardy?”
“Not yet. I’ve got some ideas but not enough information.” That was true; it was also true that I was trying to safeguard Pat Guthrie’s interests while working for her husband. Tricky.
They were calling my plane and I rang off, still trying to reassure my client. No scanner again. I sat, tightly wedged between a fat man with body odour and a woman who knitted the whole way. I couldn’t concentrate on the Hughes book and the clicking of the needles and occasional elbow dig kept me from sleeping.
I thought about the information I had: both brothers had been jerked violently out of their routines and normal habits, and the man I still thought of as “the cop” was involved in the jerking. Ray was stirred up about his real father, but the connection between that and his present wild behaviour was a mystery.
It was a strange case; I’d seen the subject of my enquiries twice but hadn't made any meaningful contact. I had divided my loyalties between my client and his wife. I supposed I’d done some good by getting Chris to the hospital earlier than he would otherwise have made it. It didn’t seem like much of an achievement to report to Grandma. Especially with Ray Guthrie thinking of me as an adversary.
The turbulence started about half an hour out of Sydney and intensified as we got closer. The pilot announced that Sydney was being swept by a storm and that we could expect some delays and confusion. I fancied that the body odour got a little worse, but the needles never missed a click.
A summer storm had hit; the gutters and the people had all been caught in light clothes without coats or umbrellas. Those who’d made dashes from the car park or taxis to the terminal looked as if they’d waded there neck-deep. Strangely, everyone seemed to be good humoured about it; the city had had a long dry spell and perhaps the people were ready for the water as well as the plants. I wasn’t, myself—the drivers of old cars don’t like it.
I drove home cautiously on tyres that would make Jack Brabham weep. I skidded twice and had a heady moment when the wipers hesitated, but I said “mush” to them and they kept going. I parked outside the house and toted my bag up the path through the rain. I was tired from the long day, the traveling and the depressing effect of seeing what heroin can do to a young, healthy man. I wanted a shower and a drink; I wanted to listen to Ella Fitzgerald; I wanted to see Helen Broadway. Instead, I got Frank Parker.
He was sitting halfway up the stairs, which put him about ten metres from the front door and head to head with anyone coming through it. It was a shooting gallery arrangement, with Parker in the shooter’s spot—he was in shadow and whoever was in the doorway was beautifully framed against the light. Parker had a gun in his hand and he was ready to shoot.
“Jesus, Frank!” I dropped the bag and was almost alarmed enough to try putting up my hands. Parker stretched his long legs in front of him and stood up just a couple of steps above the floor. He came down the steps, favouring his left side. He lowered the gun to his side; I closed the door behind me we met halfway up the passage.
“The dentist let me in,” he said. “Must be handy for a bloke in your game and with your personality to have someone around who can fix your teeth.”
“Put the bloody gun away.” I went past him toward the kitchen and the fridge. “How long have you been here?”
“Since last night.”
“Sorry I didn’t change the sheets.” He didn’t say anything to that and I didn’t find out why until later. “I need a drink.”
He followed me through to the kitchen, where I decided that wine wasn’t the answer. I got the whisky out of the cupboard where it usually lives a lonely life, grabbed a glass and poured a short one. “Cheers.” I put it down, took a deep breath and looked at him.
He had a rumpled look which was unusual for him and he’d missed a shave; for a man with a beard as heavy as his that’s like missing two shaves. He set the safety on the revolver with his thumb and put it on the table. I held up the bottle and he nodded. I poured one for him and another for me.
“What’s up, Frank?”
He sipped the scotch and made a face. “Not very good.”
“None of it’s any good when you come right down to it. Did I ask what was up?”
I pushed aside the books and magazines on the table to make eating and drinking room the way I always had to. We sat down, Parker carefully, protecting the left side. He had a preoccupied, almost embarrassed look. He was a very private, self-contained man and the situation wasn’t an easy one for him. I gave him time. The window was still wet from the rain and the afternoon sun coming through broke up into pin-points of light. I drank some more of the cut-price scotch.
“I got a bit busy after we finished the other day,” Parker said. “Came into town and poked around. Here and there. I was really trying to sort out my own thing—who might have set me up.” He sipped his drink and rubbed his chin as if he could feel the whiskers growing. “But I made a few discreet enquiries about your matter too, especially about him.” He got the photograph out of his shirt pocket and laid it on the table. “Strange thing is, it looks like your problem and mine are related.”
“You know who he is.” I was excited, feeling for the breakthrough.
“Yeah. I thought he was familiar but it wouldn’t click. A former colleague clinched it for me. He’s a bloke named Henry Hayes; they call him ‘Bully’.”
“I’ll trump you,” I said. “He’s a Queensland cop.”
He nodded. “He was. He acts as if he still is. He’s bad news; a hit man, basically. He killed six men officially in the line of duty and a few more unofficially. He left the force early this year.”
“Why? Kicked out?”
“No. They couldn’t kick him out. Knows too much dirt. He’s said to have the goods on top men in the force and sideways—on the politicians and the crims. He’s invulnerable.”
“Or highly dispensable.”
He shook his head. “Not so far. Like I said, he acts as if he’s still a cop—he exerts the authority without the responsibility.”
We both drank, but I didn’t taste mine. We were probably thinking the same thing—that a rogue policeman with high-level backing and protection was about as dangerous an animal as there was.
“So why did he quit? Why not go on killing people and drawing his pay?”
“No ones knows. But it’s something very big. I do know it involves Liam Catchpole and Dottie Williams.”
“They’re not big time.”
“They are now. Look, I’ve narrowed down the things I was working on that could’ve been a big threat to anyone of three.”
“That all? I can only do one thing at a time.”
“Luxury. Yeah, three, that’s disregarding old stuff. I felt I was getting close to whoever killed the heroin courier at Mascot. You read about that?”
I nodded.
“I had a customs bloke ready to talk. I thought I was getting warm on the judge who got bombed. His daughter died and her boyfriend was sweating his guts out over it. Really pushing. He had a lawyer over a barrel and was getting some names. Bad stuff goes on in those courts. And there’s a bloke in Parramatta, coming out soon, who I was keeping under wraps. He won’t be pleased that I got the push.”
“Why? What’s his game?”
“D’you remember Collinson, the one who killed his partner and took off with the money?”
“Yeah, think so.”
“Wasn’t all that much fuss about it. My man had some information about an accomplice who didn’t want to go on being an accomplice. It was going to take careful handling.”
“I’m glad I’m not in law enforcement. How much money was involved in that Collinson thing again?” I finished my drink and poured just a whisper more.
“About six million. Easy on that, Cliff. We’ve got things to do.” He touched his side and winced.
“What happened to you?”
“Someone made a pass at me—with a knife, in Crown Street.”
I whistled. “Is it bad?”
“Big scratch. The dentist fixed it.” He smiled and I began to get the idea.
“Where’s Hilde now?”
“She went off to do the disgusting things she does. She’ll be back. Very competent young woman.”
“Yeah. She is. Look, Frank; I’m glad you felt you could come here and all, but you’ve left a lot of things hanging. What’s the connection between your thing and mine? And why are you here?” I felt like finishing my whisky but something about his face made me give up the idea.
He leaned forward across the table. “Here’s the connection. I think those earlier goes at me were just warnings, but this one,” he touched his ribs again, “was the real thing. And it happened shortly after I made the enquiry and got the answers about Hayes. There was time for the word to pass and my feeling is that’s what happened. Why’m I here? I went home and there was a three man crew watching the house. Someone’s getting serious.”
