Get Even

by Peter Corris

  'Jesus, Dave,' Dunlop said. 'You've really stuck your neck out, haven't you?'

  Scanlon sniffed, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face and eyes. Dunlop was unsure whether he was dealing with a respiratory problem or tears. 'High stakes, mate. They want to nail Loomis, Kippax and quite a few others. It's fucking political, as always. If those big heads roll, other smaller heads stay safe. It's all a lot of crap, this corruption inquiry stuff. Just a matter of passing the buck and protecting the right arses. You must know that.'

  Dunlop shrugged. 'I just deal with the operational aspects. I'm a caddy, not a player. D'you play golf, Dave?'

  'Now and again.'

  'We'll have a round or two,' Dunlop said. 'Somewhere, sometime.'

  'What the fuck does that mean?'

  'It means you're a challenge to me, mate. I've tucked away quite a few people since I've been in this game. It turned out that nobody cared with some of them. Some of the others, a lot of people cared. But you've got more problems than any other man I ever heard of. Unless you're lying.'

  Scanlon picked the longest butt out of the ashtray with his blunt, thick fingers, straightened it and put the end, minimally, in his mouth. Working carefully, with the lighter flame turned low, he got the butt lit and inhaled deeply.

  'You'd have got a good bit of lighter gas with that drag,' Dunlop said.

  'Get stuffed. What did you mean by that crack about me lying?'

  Dunlop shrugged. 'It happens. Blokes in your boat are called clients. We get women too, of course. Well, some clients lie to big-note themselves. They tell us this big-time operator is after them, or that fully paid-up nut case. All to get a higher level of protection and maintenance, see?'

  'You'd have to be fucking crazy,' Scanlon said. 'Just to get a whiff of the real stuff'd put you off that game. Jeez, I've . . .'

  Dunlop leaned forward. 'Yes, David? What were you about to say then?'

  'You cunt. You put the wind up me then.'

  'Keeping a little something to yourself, are you? Something to bargain with if the going gets sticky? I've been through it too many times, Dave. I've handled more clients than you've cooked up verbals. No, maybe not. But I know how it looks from your end.'

  'Fuck you. How could you?'

  Dunlop was silent. He could have told Scanlon about the simulations they had been through in the training course—the real-life, real-threat scenarios that had left some of the trainees failed and hospitalised. He doubted that the former detective would be impressed. Other genuinely hazardous situations—his confrontation with Kerry Loew and the menace represented by Dennis Tate—were not things he could talk about. He watched as Scanlon took a few desperate puffs on the diminishing butt and was glad that he'd given up the weed and was now an 'occasional' rather than a 'social' drinker. Addictions were too revealing of vulnerability and weakness. He sipped some water and projected calm and stillness.

  'I'm not fucking lying,' Scanlon said.

  'A few more names then. One might do. The blokes you call the pen-pushers might believe Kippax hasn't got an inkling of what you're going to talk about, but I don't. Your nerves are shot, Dave. I know you from the old days. It was always a joke and a wink with Dave Scanlon, even when the dogs were sniffing real hard. You're not joking and winking now.'

  Earlier in the session, Scanlon had undone his top shirt button and slid down his loosened tie. Now he restored it, in somewhat bedraggled condition, to its proper position. 'That's it. No more to say.'

  'You're holding out on me,' Dunlop said angrily. 'I don't advise it. If you reckon you can take care of any of this on your own, you're nuts.'

  Scanlon stood. Rising to his full height seemed to give him renewed confidence. 'What's the next move?'

  'As of now, you're under our protection. Burton tells me you've hired a few bodyguards.'

  Scanlon nodded. 'Just to keep an eye on the house at night and to keep tabs on Lucy and Mirabelle.'

  'You'll be able to pay them off. I'd like to get a look at your place. See if it's all right to keep you there for a while. Until you've fronted up for your first session, say. The level of threat to you is highest before you start and after you finish.'

  'That figures,' Scanlon said. 'But I think you should get the womenfolk out of the way now.'

  'Possibly. Let's go and take a look.'

  Dunlop and Scanlon went to the car park under the Redfern building and got into Dunlop's Ford Laser. Scanlon's lip curled a little when he saw the car. 'This is the best they can do for you? Gutless little job, isn't it?'

  Dunlop went through his routine of checking the car over thoroughly before unlocking the door. 'I don't have to do a lot of high-speed chasing these days,' he said, as he settled behind the wheel. 'It's the sort of car no-one notices. That's the important thing. What d'you drive? I mean, what did you drive?'

  'Christ, it's going to be like that, is it? I've got a Merc.'

  'Could be worse, depending on the colour. White is it? Grey?'

  'Red,' Scanlon grunted, 'with white upholstery.'

  'Shit. I suppose you've got plates saying "Davo"?'

  'Get fucked.'

  Scanlon lived in Randwick. Dunlop knew the address and drove skilfully through the early evening traffic. In mid-November, with daylight saving in operation, Sydney was warm through most of the day, but experienced a cooling wind as the sun sank towards the skyline. Dunlop appeared relaxed, hummed under his breath, but was constantly on the alert for anything unusual—a car pushing up hard from behind or cutting across from another lane. He looked for vehicles that appeared to be travelling in tandem, particularly a truck and a car or a car and a motorcycle. Nothing threatening appeared. Scanlon was tense, particularly when he reached for his cigarettes as he did several times on the drive. Part of Dunlop's task was to keep the client cooperative and, as far as possible, relaxed. It was the aspect of the work he was least good at. Aggressive and inclined to be insensitive to the feelings of others, he tended to communicate those attitudes. He glanced sideways at Scanlon, who was picking at one of his skin cancers.

  'So, where do you play golf, Dave?'

  'The Cliffs course, behind Prince Edward hospital. Know it?'

  'Heard of it. Tricky?'

  'Depends on how you play. Lot of water as you'd expect—not a problem if you can give it a whack. Not many bunkers. What's better—your long or short game?'

  'Long. Putting's lousy.'

  'You'd be all right then. Greens are good. It's getting a bit of distance off the tee that screws up the roughies.'

  'Sounds interesting.'

  'Yeah, let's have a game. Be a good place to see if anyone's paying me any attention. You can put a few blokes on the course. They'll enjoy the day out. What about tomorrow?'

  Dunlop was unused to clients taking the initiative in this way, but he saw some merit in the suggestion. To his surprise, he was beginning to enjoy Scanlon's company. 'I'll think about it.'

  Scanlon forced his hand away from his face, patted his pocket for cigarettes again and sighed. 'Of course, I'll have to check it out with her ladyship, Lucy, first.'

  Dunlop made the turn into Carrington Road, smiling to himself. Dave Scanlon was one of the last men on earth he'd have expected to be henpecked. The Scanlon house was a sprawling, modern ranch-style building, long and low, set on a big corner block. Good, Dunlop thought, two sides securable. There was a chest-high brick wall all around surmounted by a metal fence at least as high, providing a formidable barrier. The double gates were set in solid brick pillars and opened by a remote control device which Scanlon now took from his pocket.

  'Big spread,' Dunlop said as he drew up at the gates and waited for Scanlon to operate the remote control. 'Must have cost a bit.'

  'I earned it.' As Scanlon spoke, a man stepped from a car parked across the street and approached the Laser. Scanlon wound down his window and leaned out. 'It's okay, Geoff. It's me. Where're the girls?'

  Geoff was a muscular, blond crew-cut specimen
in white T-shirt and faded army fatigue pants. His right hand was thrust into a deep pocket, the arm flexed for a quick movement. 'Shopping, Mr Scanlon. Russell's with them.'

  'Right.' Scanlon pressed a button on the black box and the gates opened. 'You can park in one of the slots,' he said to Dunlop. 'There's three.'

  Dunlop braked halfway up the gravel drive. 'Here'll do me.'

  'You'll drip oil on my gravel.'

  'Dave, that's going to be the next owner's problem, not yours. Pretend I'm a buyer. Show me around.'

  'Funny bastard.' Scanlon got out of the car and groaned as his joints creaked. 'I'm out of condition. I'll have to ride a buggy when we have that round.'

  'Not with me you won't,' Dunlop said. 'You'll walk every bloody metre and carry your clubs. Start of the new man you're going to be. We'll have to think of a name, too . . . What's wrong?'

  Scanlon was standing in the middle of the drive, looking towards the back of the house. The fading light bounced off the blue-green surface of the swimming pool thirty metres away. Scanlon loosened his tie again. 'Jeez, I could go a beer. I can't understand where Rusty's got to.'

  'Rusty?'

  'My dog. Shepherd with a bit of dingo in him. Bloody great watchdog. Rusty!' Scanlon let out a low whistle, but there was no response. 'Rusty, you great bludger! Where are you?'

  The two men walked past the three-car garage. The roller doors were open and Dunlop could see the rear end of the red Mercedes and the back wheel of a motor scooter. Scanlon whistled again and clapped his hands but there was no sign of the dog. 'Can't understand it,' he muttered.

  Dunlop motioned Scanlon to stop as they reached the breezeway between the garage and the back door of the house. He took out the .45 automatic he carried in a hip holster and checked the action. 'Check the back door, Dave.'

  'There's an alarm. Geoff would have heard if anyone had . . .'

  'Just check it!'

  Scanlon moved cautiously across to the house and examined the screen and the closed door. Dunlop noted with approval that the big man kept himself pressed close to the wall, out of sight to anyone inside the house. 'Looks all right,' Scanlon said.

  'Stay there.' Dunlop moved past the garage to a paved area behind the house. He crossed that and approached the twenty-five metre swimming pool. At the far end there appeared to be a shadow under the low diving board. The shadow lengthened as Dunlop walked beside the rippling water. At the halfway point he realised that what he was seeing was not a shadow, but a stain slowly spreading out from something floating there. He heard Scanlon come up behind him, wheezing from having trotted the short distance.

  'Jesus Christ,' Scanlon said. 'It's Rusty.'

  3

  Scanlon insisted that his wife and daughter should not return to the house. Geoff communicated with Russell by mobile phone and Dunlop used his own mobile to arrange for the two females to be taken to a WPU safe house. He requested that Madeline Hardy be assigned to these clients, the operation being given the code name 'Thoroughbred'. He knew that Maddy Hardy would appreciate the reference—they had first consummated their passion in the Thoroughbred Motel in Randwick, after circling each other for several wary weeks.

  Scanlon gave Dunlop his key and instructed him how to switch off the alarm system. Dunlop went into the house, gave it a once-over to make sure it contained no surprises, and brought two cans of beer back to the pool area Scanlon had hauled the dog out and he squatted beside it, his shirt sleeves and trousers soaked with the stained water. The big dog had been struck very hard on the head several times and then slashed across the throat. The head wound was clean now, showing splintered bone, pink flesh and oozing brain pulp. Scanlon straightened up, wiped his hands on his shirt and accepted the can.

  'Mirabelle loved that dog. I couldn't let her see this.'

  Dunlop nodded and popped his can. 'How did Rusty feel about strangers?'

  Scanlon looked down at the dog. 'He wouldn't savage them, but he'd bark to wake the fuckin' dead and he'd stand them off. Jump about, growl, all that carry-on. I can't see how anyone'd get close enough to do this to him.'

  'Have a drink,' Dunlop said. 'Tranquilliser dart'd do it easy. It'd be quiet, too. Knock him out and then do the rest.'

  Scanlon opened his can clumsily and took a long pull on it. 'Cunts.'

  'This is a warning. This says lay off, shut up. What d'you say, Dave?'

  Scanlon flopped down into an aluminium and plastic pool chair. 'I say fuck 'em. Mind you, I haven't got much choice. I'm facing a heap of charges if I don't play along. I've got to tell you I'm not guilty of most of them, but I can be made to look guilty real easy. You know what it costs to hire a good QC these days?'

  'I can guess.' Dunlop sat and drank some beer.

  Scanlon squinted at Dunlop's can of light beer. 'What're you drinking that piss for? I only keep it in the house for Mirabelle.'

  Dunlop shrugged and Scanlon went on. 'Yeah, I'd be bankrupt after it went a couple of days in court and completely skint by the time it finished. Plus I might lose. They've got my balls gripped good and tight.'

  Dunlop was not sympathetic. Scanlon, he knew, had skated on thin ice as a policeman for many years, taking the kickbacks, playing the odds, risking the falls. He knew how the system worked and shouldn't have been surprised when some of its sharper teeth bit him. But Dunlop's job was not to judge, just to protect and preserve. He enjoyed the sporting element in it and, just occasionally, there was a client who deserved his best services. To stay good at the job, he believed, you had to practise the skills, even though that mostly meant working for the unworthy.

  'This is flash stuff,' Dunlop said. 'Killing the dog like this. Serious, but sort of dramatic. What does that suggest to you?'

  Scanlon had almost emptied his can in a couple of seconds. He drained it and crumpled it slowly in his big mottled fist. 'Nothing.'

  'You're lying, Dave.'

  Scanlon shrugged. 'I'm fucking tired is what I am. I was up half the night with . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'Never mind. What do we do next?'

  'I'd suggest you go and have a lie-down. Geoff can do something about the dog and then he and Russell can take off. I'll get some of our people over. What can you tell me about the neighbours?'

  Scanlon did indeed look tired. The dark bags under his eyes sagged down towards his cheeks and a vein in his forehead was throbbing. He shrugged. 'Doctor of some kind over the back. Good security set-up to protect his art collection. Invited me in to have a look at it once. Pile of shit it seemed to me.'

  Dunlop jerked his thumb at the high cyclone fence on the side of the block. 'What about there?'

  'Tennis court. That's what the fence is for. The odd ball comes over just the same. Rusty used to eat 'em.' Scanlon chuckled and then coughed and wheezed. 'Jeez, I'm going to miss that dog. The bloke there's in advertising. Poofter I think, but it's hard to tell these days. Drives a Porsche.'

  'Names?'

  'Doctor Farnham, like with that singer. The poofter's name is Dempsey, can you believe it? I checked them out when I moved in here. They're okay.'

  'Have a rest,' Dunlop said. 'I'll explain things to Geoff.'

  Scanlon heaved himself from the chair and stared at Dunlop. 'You've changed. I used to think you didn't have the gumption to do the job in plain clothes. You were a bit of a bleeding heart as I recall.'

  'We all change, Dave. And you're going to have to do a hell of a lot of it.'

  Scanlon bent and picked up the jacket he'd dropped by the side of the pool. He looked briefly at the dog and lumbered off towards the house. Dunlop used his phone to summon a security team. He deliberated and then called another number.

  'Doctor Carstairs here.'

  'Ted, Luke Dunlop. I've got a client—overweight, fifty plus, lot of stress. His colour's bad and he's got this blue vein in his forehead. Looked like it was sort of throbbing.'

  'Hmm. Smoker?'

  'Yes, but I've told him he'll have to stop.'

  'Tape
r him off, don't cold turkey him. What's he doing now?'

  'Lying down.'

  'Let him rest. Get him to take a shower and keep an eye on him. The vein's not necessarily a problem. Relax him. A few quiet drinks wouldn't hurt, bit of TV and some exercise. See how he pulls up in forty-eight hours. I take it he's expendable?'

  'Isn't everyone? Thanks, Ted.'

  'You're welcome.'

  Dunlop winced as he cut the call. He hated being told he was welcome and being instructed to have a nice day. He feared Americanisation as much as he disliked the monarchy and everything that went with it. He considered himself a republican, and had been told that the French and German models of how republican constitutions worked should be adopted by Australia. He had problems with that idea, too. It was an uncomfortable stance, but Dunlop had seldom experienced comfort.

  He made arrangements with Geoff for the removal of the dog and the termination of his and Russell's services. Geoff was a hireling of a large security services firm and it was no skin off his nose, once Dunlop had shown him his credentials.

  The bodyguard drove off with the body of Rusty, wrapped in a tarpaulin, in the boot of his car. Dunlop wandered around the large block, noting the professionally tended garden and high level of maintenance of the house and pool, until his three-man team of minders arrived. He briefed them on the killing of the dog and the likelihood that the perpetrator had entered the property over the back fence. They were experienced and needed little instruction. Dunlop knew that the fence would be watched, that the team would immediately search the house for weapons and drugs, would send out for food if required, maintain contact with him and generally keep Scanlon secure without constraining him too much.

  'Grog?' Dieter Weiss, the leader of the team, asked.

  'Supply him, but keep it moderate. There's some kind of games room in there—darts, pool table and all that. You blokes might like to take a few bucks off him. Sorry you can't take a dip, unless you fancy swimming in dog blood.'

  Weiss grinned. 'What about the neighbours?'