‘Ah,’ she said, but then frown lines creased her forehead, forming twisted curves over one slightly raised eye. Noticing them he thought: that’s exactly how I look when I don’t believe someone.
‘Buzzards Hut was my idea,’ he went on. ‘Because it was remote, and I knew the country pretty well from my childhood. We buried the cash, then stood around, rain pouring all over us, joined hands and made a solemn pledge to return to the spot a year to the day from then—not before. Funny thing—I remember thinking as I gripped their hands and looked into their eyes that one or two of us could come and dig it up anytime before the agreed date. I imagine Mitch and Andy thought the same thing. There was a lot of trust involved—absolute trust.’
She was still frowning as he lit another cigarette.‘But you never did make that date.’
‘No,’ he said, holding his Bic lighter in front of his face. ‘Everything seemed to unravel at the speed of light.’ Looking from the lighter to her he said,‘At the time, I had a gold Zippo lighter with a Harley-Davidson badge on it. It was a sort of trademark of mine. But somehow I lost it after the robbery. It must have slipped out of my pocket in the van, because that’s where they found it, wedged between the seat and the backrest. Complete with fingerprints. I remember taking off the gloves in the van and lighting up as soon as we hit the road, putting the lighter in my pants pocket . . .’
‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Something as insignificant as that.’
‘That’s all it ever takes. One clear print—a part of a print. I was picked up the same night I came back from Buzzards Hut. They came crashing in the way we did at George’s place, only there were more of them. Questioned all night, thrown in the nick . . . I was stuffed. But I wouldn’t tell them who my accomplices were. There was no reason why they’d think of Mitch and Andy. It wasn’t as if we were close buddies or a rat pack hanging out together all the time. We just had this one big thing in common. And being an ex-cop, I knew plenty of professional criminals I could’ve recruited for the job.’
‘Right.’
‘I should never have held out,’ he said. ‘Should’ve given them up. If they’d been arrested too . . .’
‘What happened?’ she said, and put a hand on his thigh, spreading the fingers and gripping tight.
He said, ‘Two nights after my arrest, Mitch was gunned down in his driveway, sitting in his car. Executed. Then Andy was found in a stormwater drain with his throat cut.’
Long pause while she tried to piece it all together. ‘Shit. But hang on . . . you couldn’t have done anything about that.’
‘If I’d named them they would have been in custody too. That’s the only reason I’m alive today. They—the killers— couldn’t get at me. And Mitch and Andy would not have known I’d been busted. The cops would’ve kept it under wraps for fear of tipping off the accomplices. So they had no advance warning.’
‘But I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Who are they? Who killed Mitch and Andy?’
‘Big mystery,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought about not much else for eleven years. The answer is, I don’t know. Damned if I do. And on top of that, at about the same time there was the unexplained murder of a Chinese hood, a guy named Johnny Wu. His body was found in a burnt-out car.’
‘Police?’
‘Don’t see what they had to gain. Wasn’t their style, and there was no clear pattern. A driveway hit says Mafia, but there’s no Italian connection here. And Andy . . . Andy was a different MO again. A throat-slash suggests Asian. Johnny Wu? He had no involvement in any part of it as far as I know, but the investigating detectives seemed to believe differently. The same crew looked into all three killings, as if they were related. Made no sense. To me, anyway.’
‘That’s a peculiar thing to say, you have to admit,’ she said.
Grinning, he said, ‘Sure. None of it makes sense. Except this part—the here and now.’
Jo said, ‘Just wind it back a little. Didn’t you omit something important?’
‘I’m telling the story as I know it,’ he said.‘That’s the only version I have.’
‘Okay, you said you were prepared to kill George if he didn’t open the strongroom. But George and Stephanie were murdered, weren’t they? Horribly?’
He drew deeply on his cigarette, nodded and said, ‘Their heads were blown off with a shotgun.’
‘And you have no explanation for that?’
‘It wasn’t us,’ he said simply.‘As I said, we roughed George up, but no-one hurt Stephanie except to force her into a chair and wrap tape around her. When we split they were both trussed up and gagged. Definitely not happy, but they were very much alive.’
She poured the remains of the bottle into his glass and helped herself to a Lucky. He liked the way she did that. ‘So we’re talking about four unsolved murders here,’ she said. ‘Five, counting Johnny Wu.’
He swirled the wine, made an effort to savour it this time. ‘I was charged and convicted of the murders of George and Stephanie, because I was all they had, and I was definitely there. There were no witnesses, no weapons—Mitch had dumped them. I drew two life sentences—as in, whole of life, no change given. I went through appeals . . . it was no good; my own lawyers didn’t even believe me. And then, three years ago, Emergency Services workers pulled the body of a man from the Yarra—he’d taken a dive off the West Gate Bridge—and right next to it was a bag full of weapons, including brass knuckles bearing traces of George’s blood, plans of the Petrakos place and notes in Mitch’s handwriting. I’d always maintained that no shots were fired during the robbery—now they had weapons to test. We had a sawn-off shotgun, and it came out clean. There were even two live cartridges still in it. Every gun was fully loaded, and none of them had been fired, ever. They were new, stolen from a gun shop, Mitch said.’
‘How can they tell after all that time?’
‘They can tell. The prosecution argued that we could’ve had another gun, which was possible . . . and anyway, if we didn’t kill them, who the hell did? They were playing hardball because they hadn’t recovered the money and drugs, and because Stephanie’s family was rich and influential. Then, out of the blue, an investigative journalist revealed that original tests on my skin and clothing had failed to show up any gunshot residue, which should’ve been there if I’d done it. It later transpired that this important detail was suppressed by a certain detective who was anxious for me to remain behind bars. So the shit flew, and at the end of the day there was just enough doubt in the air to overturn the murder convictions.’
‘Money and drugs,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘They hadn’t recovered the money and drugs. But you said you didn’t take the drugs.’
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘We didn’t.’
‘But the drugs were taken.’
‘Oh yeah, they were taken.’
A couple of minutes passed, and neither spoke. He could hear the wheels turning in her head. Then she said: ‘And the guy at Buzzards Hut yesterday?’
‘He was a retired cop turned private investigator. His plan was to rip off the money and put me in the hole—only it didn’t work out for him.’
Pause. ‘They’re not going to find him, are they?’
‘I sure hope not,’ he said.
She processed all of this, then said, ‘So, summing up: according to you, someone came between the time when your team left and the police arrived—when? How much later?’
‘Little over two hours—two and a quarter. Definite window of opportunity there.’
‘Killed George and Stephanie and absconded with the drugs.’ She gave him another quizzical look.
‘I must confess it sounds . . . implausible. Highly unlikely. If I were a cop I’d be slightly cynical. But why would I lie about the drugs when I’ve owned up to pinching the money?’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said.‘You could have your reasons. Call me cynical.’
‘Do you believe me?’
‘Jails are full of people who
didn’t do it,’ she said—stringing him on, he thought.
‘Sure.’ He lowered his eyes.
‘But let me tell you this: I have an infallible built-in lie detector. It’s had years of fine-tuning. And the message I’m receiving is that you are not bullshitting me.’
‘That’s encouraging.’
‘It does sound lame—so lame, so far out, it just could be true.’ Then,more solemnly:‘Although you are capable of killing, obviously.’ In saying this, she was also thinking that he was not at all like a convict. There was an air of calm and composure emanating from him, and no edge of bitterness or latent, pent-up aggression. Judging from appearances, you’d think he’d just come back from a Buddhist retreat, not a hellhole.
Shaun said:‘While I was digging my grave up there, I was wondering how I was going to get out of it alive, and whether I had it in me to do what needed to be done. I found my answer—from necessity. But shoot two people in cold blood? No. And I don’t see why we’d go to all the trouble of taping them up first. Why not just kill them outright?’
‘Could have been a last-minute decision. Maybe you panicked. But it’s okay,’ she said, touching his arm.‘I do believe you. The system got it right—in the end.’
‘It’s a funny thing,’ he said.‘In my dreams I actually did do it, vividly—bang, bang. Every night it’s the same, no matter how hard I try to change it.’
‘You don’t need to be a shrink to interpret that,’ she said. ‘It just means you have a conscience. But tell me, after eleven years of working on it you must have some theory about what went on.’
He gave a grim sort of smile that had the effect of tightening the skin across his face. She saw suddenly that he was very tired. He said, ‘I think there was a whole extra dimension to it that Mitch didn’t know anything about. We were like actors doing our bit, but the real action was happening behind the scenes somewhere. I keep coming back to the blueprints. I’d love to know how he got them. That must be the key. Mitch maintained no-one else knew what we were planning, but I think he was wrong. We were being tracked and manipulated all the way.’
‘Sounds like it,’ she said.‘So what are you going to do now?’
‘Now? Now I need to start by finding out who killed George and Stephanie.’
‘What about Mitch and Andy? Vincent?’
‘I’ve got a funny feeling that’ll come out in the wash.’
‘Bit of a hazardous mission, isn’t it? Why not just keep the money and forget it? Why buy trouble?’
He was shaking his head before she’d finished. ‘Because these people aren’t prepared to leave me alone. Walsh was acting for someone. And I didn’t do eleven years of stir so I could run and hide for the rest of my life. One lesson I did learn inside was the need to face your fears. In that environment you’ll have a shortened life otherwise.’
‘I see,’ she said vaguely, pushing her hand through her hair and looking a little dazed.
‘Not a very nice story,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘Sorry about that.’
She smiled and said,‘Don’t forget I’m married to a lawyer. I know all about the evil that men do.’
‘Look, I’m certainly no vestal virgin,’ he said.‘I did wrong, and I served my sentence. But I don’t see why I should serve someone else’s too.’
‘Can’t fault that logic,’ she said.
He crushed out a cigarette and said,‘Mitch was a gambler.’
‘What?’
‘Before I knew him. I heard the stories about how he punted heavily on the ponies. It was his big flaw.’ Squeezing her hand he said, ‘Once a gambler always a gambler. He believed he had all the bases covered, but the odds will always find a way to beat you.’
‘You said you had nothing to lose,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know you then, did I?’
‘If you had, I would have pulled you up,’ she said.‘But since I don’t have a time machine, let’s be practical instead: what are you going to do with the cash?’
‘Been thinking about that,’ he said. ‘Got any ideas?’
She moved closer, draped an arm over his shoulder and said, ‘You trust me on this?’
‘Obviously,’ he said. ‘Otherwise . . .’
He saw her eyes, close-up, momentarily reflecting his own, then felt her fingertips on his face and the soft brush of her lips across his mouth, back and forth. ‘Can’t just . . . leave it sitting there,’ she breathed.
He was about to say something, but then the slick point of her tongue slid between his lips,he felt himself falling backwards, free-falling, her hands and lips were all over the place, and for a time words didn’t seem all that important any more.
9
Fat Man was far from impressed.
Nothing unusual about that: his mood was generally that of a man whose best suit had just come back from the dry cleaners with a hole burnt in it—glowering, dyspeptic, intense piggy eyes withdrawing deeper and deeper into the soft folds of his overfed face. He had made an art form of wiping off longstanding alliances over a single apparently trifling difference—or what seemed to anyone else to be trifling— and, once a person was wiped by Fat Man, it was permanent. He would then badmouth his sworn enemy on the streets and in bars all over town, until the object of his hatred was replaced by fresh meat. There was a sense of inevitability about this cycle, even of predestination. People came and went in his world like migratory birds—only once they left, they never returned.
There were also those who fell to earth with a splat.
Oftentimes the victims of these splenetic fits did not even know what they’d done to deserve it, but it made no difference: somehow they had crossed him, or shit in the nest, as he usually put it. If anyone had the gall to challenge him, he would interrupt and tell him to ‘fuck off ’ in his cracked, high-pitched voice, wave him away as if he were an insect and turn his broad, bristling back.
Whenever Fat Man had occasion to laugh, it was invariably with bitter satisfaction because someone he disliked had suffered grievously, by accident or design—an underworld figure assassinated, a colleague in financial straits, whatever. Normal, hearty laughter at a joke doing the rounds or an amusing anecdote was unknown to Fat Man. From his perspective everything was intensely personal, the delineations clear-cut. If he was in a conversation at a bar and the talk strayed too far from his own domain, he automatically lost interest and turned away.
The cause of his current anger was Bernie Walsh, who was supposed to follow Shaun McCreadie, without McCreadie becoming aware of the fact. Walsh had not only lost the subject, but somehow he’d managed to lose himself too— the useless, jar-headed dick. A covert operation had now turned into a fucking police search, for Chrissakes. Where was Walsh? Wandering around in the scrub—dazed and disoriented?
Bullshit.
Walsh was dead. Fat Man had a gut feeling it was all over for the Nazi. He wasn’t even answering his phone now, and Walsh would never fail to take a call, the uptight, jack-booted son of the goddamn Fatherland, especially in these circumstances—with so much at stake. The phone was disconnected. Why? It had Fat Man stumped. Walsh might disconnect his phone to recharge it, but not for this long—no way. The only logical explanation was that the phone was no longer in his possession.
It was in Shaun McCreadie’s.
Dead men had no use for a phone.
McCreadie would only switch it on if he wanted to make calls, not receive them. He was no fool.
Fat Man lifted the seven-ounce glass of Carlton Draught to his lips and poured it down his gullet, leaving an even film of froth all the way down the glass. Then he foraged in his pocket for some change and slapped it on the bar towel—his way of capturing the bartender’s attention.
The bartender filled a fresh one, expertly snapped off the tap and set the creaming glass in front of Fat Man, who squinted down his nose at him.
‘Don’t I know you?’ he said.
‘Doubt it,’ the bartender said, returning to the sports pa
ges of his newspaper.
It bugged Fat Man—he was sure he’d seen this punter somewhere. In court, maybe. He’d seen a lot of losers in court over the years.
But back to Bernie Walsh, and the missing brass.
Missing, missing, missing—everything was fucking missing.
All right—apply logic. It had to mean that McCreadie had managed to turn the tables on Walsh, killed him, lifted his phone, spirited away the cash . . . where?
McCreadie had no address. He was fresh out of the slams. His accommodation would be temporary. He was a lone wolf, no close family, and he probably wouldn’t shack up with friends . . . if he had any left. Eleven years in the slams, he’d kept to himself—it’d be the same story outside. He’d stay in a hotel or boarding house or something. A backpacker place. He would want to remain anonymous.
Maybe—but not with a large amount of spending power about his person. With that, he could afford to stay anywhere— the top-drawer joints. Crown Towers, Hilton, wherever. Live it up. Champagne, caviar, quality girls on tap doing a private dance on his Johnson all night. Why not? In his fuckin’ shoes, Fat Man would.
He squeezed his eyes together and again downed his beer in a single swallow. A seven-ounce glass seemed so insignificant in his fat, beefy fist—so fat his knuckles were all recessed. They were inverse knuckles, maybe from punching so many heads over the years. All his life he had drunk sevens rather than tens, for reasons he could not remember. It was a habit common among men of his generation who spent a lot of time in pubs. And he still used British imperial measurements. He was six-three and a tick over twenty stone. His cock— what he referred to as his twin Johnsons—was ten-and-a-half inches with a collar and tie on.
Not that it made much of a wake these days. It was excess baggage, a passenger: passive, non-fare paying, utterly useless. Dead meat.
Like Bernie Walsh.
The bartender gave him a fresh beer. Fat Man downed it. Then he made a circular gesture with his forefinger, indicating his desire for a refill. McCreadie—fucking Shaun McCreadie. He was a devious, silent, determined bastard, you had to hand it to him. Still full of cop smarts. A killer too. Too fucking much of one for Bernie Walsh.
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