by Peter Corris
19
The room we were in seemed to take up about a third of the floor plan of the house. There was a deep carpet on the floor, and the walls were wood-panelled. A big fireplace divided the wall opposite the French windows, and there were heavy drapes drawn over floor-to-ceiling windows in the wall which formed in front of the house. The glass-paned front door was uncovered.
Hayes and I stood by the open window, breathing softly and adapting to the darkness. The moon moved into the clear and beams of light came through the glass—enough to show the outlines of the furniture, which consisted of a low table in front of the fireplace, an easy chair to the side of it and a hi-fi, radio and TV unit. A set of low shelves held records and cassettes, and there was a large bookcase, well stocked.
Hayes pointed and we moved across the carpet towards the back. The house had a simple layout; a galley-style kitchen ran along the whole length of the back section, and we didn’t bother to go down three steps to look in. The single bedroom was off the large front room to the left. The door stood half-open and there was a soft light inside. Hayes moved the slide on the .45 back, cocking it. The mechanism was oiled and smooth and the click was barely audible although I was only a few centimetres away from it.
“Go into the bedroom,” he whispered, “and stand in the nearest corner with your face to the wall.”
My heart was crashing in my chest and I could feel the blood beating in my temples. The floor felt red hot. I could smell Hayes an arm’s length behind me. I went across and sidled through the door, knocking my elbow as I went. Hayes’s breath was sibilant by my shoulder. I moved toward the corner as instructed, but it wasn’t necessary to go all the way. The night-light was turned very low, barely lifting the gloom, but I could see that there was no one in the bed. I stopped at the foot of the double bed; Hayes stopped too. The bed was rumpled and a pair of tracksuit-style pyjamas lay across the single pillow.
“He’s not here,” I said, stupidly.
“He was.”
My legs felt shaky, and I sat down on the end of the bed. Hayes moved forward, picked up an ashtray from the bedside table and looked at the half-dozen butts.
“He was here tonight.” He looked at the butts again and at the bed. “Alone.”
We prowled through the house and Hayes used the torch, still carefully, to find out what he wanted to know. In the kitchen there was evidence of an evening meal and some after-dinner drinking. Collinson had a supply of everything, and all of the best quality. The refrigerator was full of food and drink—meat, cheeses, white wine, beer. The cupboards were stacked with packet and tinned food and everything necessary for successful cooking. There were several dozen bottles of red wine in a rack and a few more cases of the stuff along with spirits and mixers. I felt myself relaxing a little.
“Crime pays,” I said. Hayes didn’t laugh.
“Where the fuck is he?”
Under the house, reached from a set of steps in the kitchen, was the garage, storeroom, workshop, and boat shed. The food supply was siege-worthy, as Phillips had said. There were two cars in residence—a Mercedes and a battered Holden panel van. Two wide benches held vices, clamps and the equipment for servicing cars and boats. We looked around, both trying to do the same thing—use the information this setup gave us to judge where he might be. My recent minor boat experience gave me the answer.
“Here’s the boat stuff,” I said. “Where’s the boat—speedboat, dinghy, whatever? There’s marks here,” I squatted on the cement floor, “that shows where he towed a boat up. Probably with the panel van. No boat now.”
He nodded. We went back into the house, through it, and out the front door. The water was still at low tide and the mud, or something under it, was making the sucking noise I had heard from the back of the house. There was a small patch of grass in front of the house with some beach scrub fringing it. A jetty about twenty metres long joined the grassy bank, ran over a short belt of sand, and stretched its length out over the moving mud.
Hayes never let his guard down; he dropped behind me and let me lead the way down the jetty. It ended in a wide-planked staging with a hand rail, and steps which would have reached the water at high tide. Now, they finished a metre or so above the heaving, dark mud. There was an almost-empty can of diesel fuel on the top step, and an oily rag hanging over the rail. Hayes, who was wearing his shoes again but had taken off his jacket, bent to examine these items after waving me to a safe distance. The moon was high now in a clear sky and visibility was good. I saw dark, moist circles spreading under Hayes’ armpits—his only indisposition; my shirt was a damp rag. He straightened up with clicking bones.
“If he’s fishing, Christ knows when he’ll be back.”
I thought about the house and the garage, checking the items mentally.
“No fishing gear anywhere,” I said. “No fish in the freezer. He’s not a fisherman. He’ll be back for breakfast. He likes to eat. Probably feeds the birds, too.”
Hayes turned to look back at the house. It was shadowed by the trees growing close to it and the foliage spread out unbroken to either side. There were houses further up the hill, but none so close to the water.
The shoreline was rocky for most of the cove and there were no other houses with such direct access to the water until further around the points off to the east and west. When Collinson came back he’d be pulling up to a private jetty in a semi-private setting. His tying-up point would be well below the main section of the jetty, virtually invisible to all except someone who cared to station himself in the scrub to the right. Such a person would be twenty metres from the boat landing, in concealment and unobstructed. If it happened like that, Collinson was a dead man. I took all this in quickly and Hayes obviously did the same. His usually grim expression—something like a cross between a headmaster’s and a bookie’s—relaxed a fraction. You couldn’t call it a smile.
“Say he gets back at dawn,” he said. “When’s that down here, with your godless daylight saving?”
“About five.”
“Say, three hours to wait, bit less. I can wait that long for half a million bucks. Couldn’t you, Hardy?”
“I’m never likely to get the chance.”
“That’s right. You’re not. Did you enjoy hitting Liam with the bottle?”
“Not really. A bit, I suppose.”
“You should’ve enjoyed it a lot! And not given a bugger at the same time. That’s what being hard is all about.”
“Psychology, now.”
“We had lectures. Most of the dead-heads didn’t get anything out of them. I did.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that. We walked back along the jetty across the grass to the house.
Inside, Hayes undid his top collar-button and loosened his tie. He motioned at me to sit on the floor and he lowered himself into the easy chair.
“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m bloody tired, but I can’t afford to drop off. I’ve learned a few tricks in my time—know the most important?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t drink at the wrong time. I’d love a drink; and did you see all that good stuff he’s got out there?”
“Yeah, I saw it.”
“I’ll have one after he’s dead. At the right time.”
“Like Jackie Gleason?” I said.
“What?”
“Jackie Gleason, in a movie called The Hustler. He plays this pool champ called Minnesota Fats, has a big game with Paul Newman. Newman gets pissed when he’s ahead; Gleason doesn’t drink, washes up in the break and creams him. Jackie Gleason’s fatter than you, but you’re getting there—six months of the good life should do it.”
“We’ll see. I hope you don’t think of yourself as Paul-fucking-Newman?”
“No.”
“That’s good. Know another little trick? Keep talking when you’re tired. Keep your company talking. You’re doing fine, Hardy. Keep talking. You’re a great talker, aren’t you?”
“I’m a fair talke
r. Why did you bring Catchpole and his crowd into this?”
“Useful. Dottie was supposed to get a girl for Ray. Ended up doing the job herself. She tried to get him to talk about Collinson, his real father.”
“How did that go?”
“Not good. Very cagey. He said he’d come across with things, like that photo. We told him we’d help him to locate his old man. ’Course, it was the other way around. Liam’s got contacts in the New South Wales force, more than people realise. He did a bit of this and a bit of that. My turn—why d’you do this shit-kicking kind of work?”
“It’s not bad. Bit dull at times.”
“Not dull now, eh?”
“No.”
“You reckon you’re going to survive this?”
I didn’t like the way the talk was going; he was playing with me and I felt clumsy-witted. The chance of getting him off-balance seemed remote.
“Well, do you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You tell me.”
He yawned. “Depends how it goes.”
“How else can it go? You said yourself you could shoot a man’s ear off at that range and in those conditions. If he comes, he’s dead, isn’t he?”
He almost grinned. “He might have a gun—like you.”
“What?”
He made the pseudo-laughing noise again. This time it sounded like the gurgling mud outside. “I saw you get it from the car. Saw you switch it to your pocket. But you didn’t have the guts to use it, did you?”
“Biding my time.”
“Well you waited too long, sonny Jim. Just ease it out slowly, put it on the floor, and give it a kick over here.”
I did what he said, and I had the odd sensation that my body temperature had dropped when I surrendered the gun. I shivered, although it wasn’t cold; my throat was dry and it closed on me when I tried to speak. The fear was back.
“What was that again?” His voice was full of mock concern and politeness.
“Why’d you wait so long to get the gun, Hayes?”
“Just having fun.”
“That’s not professional.”
“Well, in fact I figured you’d play along more if you thought you had an edge. It worked.”
We sat in silence for a while, then he shifted in his chair.
“Know the best way to stay awake when you’re tired, Hardy?”
“No.”
“Concentrate on your bladder. Tell yourself you need a piss. Pretty soon you will. That gives you something to think about. You don’t have the piss and you stay awake.”
“I could do with a piss right now.”
“Me too. But you can have one. Get up!”
I climbed off the floor and we went back to the toilet which was off the kitchen. I pissed, zipped up, and when I turned around he had a couple of lengths of light rope in his hand.
“Right, Hardy. Into the bedroom. We’re going to wrap you up for a while.”
He instructed me to get on the bed; he tossed me one of the pieces of rope and supervised me while I tied up my legs. Then he tied my hands behind me, and tightened up the knots all round, like a man tightening the wheel nuts on a car.
“Why?” I said.
“Who knows? Hostage maybe. I keep my options open. Goodbye, Hardy.”
He clicked off the night-light, and closed the door.
20
Lying there on the bed in the darkness, head down and arse up, the Chesterton quotation, or something of it, came into my head—to do with fucking: “The position is ridiculous, the expense damnable.” I used to think it was funny, but it didn’t seem so funny anymore.
By cranking my neck around and lifting my head, I could just get a look out a window where a holland blind ended a fraction above the sill. It was still very dark out and I wasn’t anxious for it to get light. After a while the birds started up in the trees—incongruously happy chirpings. I cranked and lifted again, but it still wasn’t dawn or even pre-dawn. My arms quickly got cramped and sore, and the split skin on my ear was throbbing. I wondered whether it really had been a lack of guts that had kept me from trying to use the gun on Hayes, or was it an instinct for survival. Or were they both the same thing?
The door opened; I felt the wind of it rather than heard any noise. I went tense and my jaw clamped tight. So did my eyes, and the back of my neck tingled. I couldn’t see why he’d get impatient and do it now, but who could tell how a Queensland cop turned hit-man, who’d killed eight people, was likely to think? I expected to hear a noise; I hoped that’d be all.
“Hardy! Hardy!” The voice was Frank Parker’s, but it sounded sweeter than Cleo Laine.
I grunted something unintelligible even to me.
“Lie still,” he whispered. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t fall off the bed when you’re loose.”
He undid the knots and I rolled over and sat up. Parker was wearing one of my denim shirts and dark pants. He’d daubed something on his face to cut down on skin shine at night. Christ, I can see him, I thought. It must be getting light. I strained my ears but couldn’t pick up any boat noise.
“How?” I said.
“I watched your place most of the day. Thought Catchpole’d show up. I got the word to him that you lifted Tiny.”
“Thanks! You’re a ruthless bastard, Frank.”
“Worked, didn’t it? I wasn’t expecting Hayes to come into the bag. Is this place what I think it is?”
“It’s Collinson’s bolthole.”
“Uh huh. Where’s ‘Bully’?”
“Christ, you don’t know?”
“No. I lay low for a while trying to work out what was going on—saw out the front and decided to nip in to get you out. Where is he?”
“He’s out in the scrub, waiting for Collinson who should be coming over the horizon in a boat pretty soon.” I scratched at my own cheek. “What’s this, bit of drama?”
“Yeah. Do you want your gun?”
“Shit, yes!”
He gave it to me. “How’d he get it off you?”
The relief I was feeling almost made me giggle. “He asked me nicely. I’m telling you, Frank, this guy is good. He’s got a perfect setup out there for blowing Collinson away.” I got off the bed and swore as my calf muscle cramped.
“You okay? We’d better get out there.”
“Right.” I rubbed the leg and hobbled. “Have you seen the kid?”
Parker shook his head. He had his gun ready, and mine in my hand felt huge. Bloody guns, I thought, but the time had come now. We went into the front room: the pre-dawn light was lifting in the sky, visible through the uncurtained front door. The water level was up; the jetty looked solidly based now, ready to serve its purpose.
“Can’t go through here,” I said. “He could be keeping an eye out.”
Parker nodded, and moved toward the side door we’d all used. We edged along the verandah to the front of the house, but it was hard to get far enough forward to look along the scrub without being seen.
We crouched behind a bush, maybe ten feet from where Hayes would be, maybe closer. The water lapped at the narow strip of greyish sand, slapped at the jetty pylons. Parker shook his head.
“We step out there, and we’re dead. He’d see us long before we’d spot him. We’ll have to wait for Collinson to come before we can move. Hope for some confusion, or start some.”
“He’s not the easily confused type. Did you see the dog?”
“Yeah.”
I mimed the three chopping blows Hayes had used on the Doberman, and Parker sucked his teeth.
There was nothing in the clear, pale sky to impede the flood of light as the sun came up. The dull, leaden look of the water receded toward the shadows on the far side of the cove, and a deep green spread across the surface.
The sound started as a dull hum, scarcely audible above the noise of the water and the busy birds. The boat appeared from around a headland, perhaps a kilometre away and it came in rapidly, skipping slightly in the light waves, hea
ded directly toward the jetty. Parker tensed beside me and we both edged forward, almost breaking cover, straining to see the man sitting in the stem of the boat.
He cut the motor a few metres from the jetty and let her drift in. He looked huge sitting there, and I realised he was wearing a life vest and a quilted jacket over that. As a target for Hayes, it couldn’t have been better. The boatman had just begun to gather himself to stand and throw a rope to the jetty when a shout came from the scrub away to the right.
“Hey! In the boat!”
Parker judged it exactly right: the voice was light, he must have realised it wasn’t Hayes, and he moved out fast with his gun up. I was a beat behind him and my eyes flicked along the scrub line, trying to see Hayes. Further along, Ray Guthrie had taken several steps out on to the sand. He lifted his hand to wave and he yelled again. The man in the boat ducked down and scrabbled for something at his feet. Then I saw Hayes; he was on his feet with his pistol up and levelled.
Parker shot him: Hayes spun around at the impact of the first shot, but Parker adjusted instantly, and got him twice more as he was going back and down. Ray Guthrie stood stock still on the beach as the sound of the shots crashed across the water.
It was a trick of the light or a moment in history or whatever you want to call it, but with his hand up in alarm near his face and with his head half-ducked away from the shots, Ray looked uncannily like the Digger in the faded photograph of thirty years before.
I sprinted down the jetty to the landing; Collinson had pulled up a carbine from the bottom of the boat, but the drama on the beach had distracted him. I pointed the .38 down at his padded chest.
“That’s your son Ray on the beach,” I said. “He just saved your life. Put the gun down, it’s over.”
He was bigger than he looked in the photograph with a craggy, sun-tanned face and strong white teeth Hilde would have admired. He was looking at Ray and scarcely seemed to notice me. But he put the carbine down.
“Out!”
His boat was still drifting. He looped a rope over a short post on the staging and pulled her in. He was wearing khaki pants and thong sandals which slapped the steps as he came up. We went along the jetty to the grass. Ray Guthrie had scrambled up there from the sand. His father walked toward him. They looked at each other and I stood back to let them have their meeting.
