Blindside
Page 34
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By mid-afternoon, Shaun was showing signs of becoming unglued in new and different ways. His skin and hair hurt to touch, his overwrought brain was in a continuous swirl, he’d developed a tic under his left eye, and a violent twitching had started up in the depths of his stomach. It was as if something trapped in there was trying to kick its way out. Whenever he shut his eyes he felt as if he was spinning backwards into a black void with no lifeline.
There were moments right now when Shaun thought he was heading in the same direction as Morris Salisbury—down that one-way road to the funny farm.
Under continuous pressure he had to crash and burn. Staying cool all those years was now exacting its price. He could visualise himself sitting out on the green lawns in a trance, lobotomised or doped up to the eyebrows: the richest inmate in the asylum.
Bullshit.
He got up from the sofa, did fifty push-ups and fifty sit-ups without raising a sweat, then undressed and treated himself to a coldish shower, standing under it with his face upturned for ten whole minutes. When he had dried off he put on clean clothes and went out into the courtyard where Jo was sitting in an oversized white shirt and blue jeans, reading what looked like a textbook and sipping a ‘gin-ton’, as she called it. He leaned over and kissed her on the lips, and straightaway felt brand new.
‘Better?’ she said. She touched his five o’clock shadow.
‘Much.’ He could taste the gin from her lips. Nice.
‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘I’ll get you something. What do you want?’
He put his hand between her legs. She responded by opening up a little. A mist seemed to rise from within her and cloud over her green eyes. Shaun withdrew his hand from the warm place and cupped the back of her head, bringing her flushed face against his.
‘Oh, my God,’ she sighed, crumpling into him.
‘Love you, baby,’ he whispered into her bunched hair.‘Love you . . .’
‘I know,’ she whispered back.
‘Always and always . . .’
She nodded against his face. ‘Yeah . . . scares me a bit.’ He held her tight and wasn’t sure if it was his heart or hers he could hear thudding. Maybe it was both. But he understood what she meant. He, too, was scared: that she might come to her middle-class senses and terminate her flirtation with the wild side as suddenly as she’d bought into it.
When they separated he said, ‘One of those will do it.’
‘What?’
‘Gin-ton.’
‘Oh. Yeah.’ She smiled and got up, brushing him with her body as she passed. He sat in one of the iron chairs and looked around at the garden. It was a sort of rockery with a variety of spring flowers in bloom, and tiny birds were chirping and darting in and out of the trees and shrubs. The air was still and warm. Life was pretty damned good.
From inside he heard the phone ring. Jo picked up, but he couldn’t quite hear what she was saying through the open door. After a moment she appeared, brandishing the portable handset and said, ‘It’s for you. Dave Wrigley.’
Shaun’s heart nearly stopped. Bill Simmonds, he immediately thought. He’s got out, or they’ve found him. It’s all gonna turn to shit, right now . . .
In the doorway she gave him the phone and began moving away, but he grasped her wrist. She needed to be part of this, whatever it was. She was one step up from him, so their eyes were about level.
‘Dave?’
‘Yeah. How’s it going, man?’
‘Travelling. What’s up?’ His eyes were fixed on Jo’s, jumping anxiously from one to the other. His grip slid from her wrist to her hand, which he squeezed lightly. She edged so close she could hear Dave’s clear cop’s voice.
‘Well, there was an incident last night, a drive-by shooting. Did you hear about that?’
‘Nope.’
‘Someone put a couple of shotgun blasts through this guy’s front window in the middle of the night. No witnesses. The shooter vamoosed in a high-powered vehicle, left burnt rubber marks on the road. Neighbours said he smoked the street before taking off at a million miles an hour.’
‘Yeah.’ Curious as he was, he had no intention of hurrying Dave. Jo moved even closer, nestling her head on his shoulder as he slipped his arm around her waist, inside the loose shirt. Her back was soft and warm. His fingers moved up and down her lower spine.
‘When he was interviewed, the victim claimed he had no idea who it was, who would do such a thing. He was in a state of shock, but obviously lying, apparently. And as we both know, attacks of this type are always carried out by a close associate, or former close associate, of the victim—right?’
‘Right.’
‘The victim in this instance was one Rick Stiles.’
‘Yeah? No shit.’
‘No shit.’
Shaun had a pretty good idea who the other party was, but he was happy for Dave to spell it all out for him. He was doing a top job so far.
‘Anyway, this morning, guess what? Mr Stiles has a change of heart. Calls us to say he is prepared to nominate the shooter. That’s one thing. But then, the kicker: he also says he wishes to retract the evidence he gave in relation to the murders of George and Stephanie Petrakos.’
Shaun suddenly felt as if he’d been dropped in a hole. His stomach leapt up, and he tightened his grip on Jo’s waist.
‘Christ.’
‘Yeah. Stiles, as you remember only too well, was his main man back then. But no longer. For some reason they’ve had a major falling out.’
‘Always just a matter of time,’ Shaun said.
‘Yeah. You might be right, man. This could turn out to be one for the cold-case unit.’
‘If he goes through with it. These people have a way of changing their minds back again when they’ve had a chance to cool off.’
‘Right. He sounded adamant, though. Word I got is that he is seriously aggrieved, in fact. Wants the shooter’s nuts in a jar two days ago. Stiles has a wife and two little ones who were in the house at the time. Fortunately no-one was hurt apart from Stiles. He copped some small fragments of glass. He was coming out of the bathroom when the shots went off. Been watching TV, right in the line of fire. Would’ve been turned into sushi if he hadn’t gone for a squirt.’
‘Lucky man.’
‘Anyway, the cold-case unit is flat chat right now. They probably won’t get around to him until sometime next week. Local CIB will handle the drive-by separately. Just thought you might be interested.’
Wrigley’s words seemed to be reaching him via an echo chamber, from somewhere far removed both in time and space. Sometimes the echo actually got ahead of Wrigley’s words, completing his sentences before he had uttered them. Shaun was well aware, however, that the distortions were occurring inside his own head, like a déjà vu effect induced by his over-eagerness to embrace the reality of what Wrigley was telling him: the whole can of worms might yet be reopened.
‘I’m very interested, Dave. Having trouble getting a grip on it. Uh . . . is he in the phone book? Stiles?’
‘Yeah. Caversham Drive, Moorabbin.You can’t miss it. It’s the only house with the front blown away.’
‘Thanks a million, Dave.’
‘Just hang cool, man.’
‘I will. Don’t worry.’
‘And I never called you.’
‘Absolutely not.’
Dave Wrigley disconnected. Shaun drew a deep, deep breath, and slowly let it out.
‘Did you get all that?’ he said to Jo, arm still tight around her.
‘Yep. It means they’ll have to reopen the case, doesn’t it?’
‘If Stiles stands up. If Stan doesn’t get to him first. If the DPP decides it’s warranted. There’s a whole bunch of ifs to get over yet. But, it’s a start.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Gonna have a chat to Mr Stiles. While he’s still hot to trot.’
‘Not now?’
He had both arms around her. ‘No, no; not now. Tomorrow.
Now I want that gin-ton.’
While Shaun was sipping his drink, mulling over Dave’s words and their possible implications, Stan Petrakos was cruising the streets of East Melbourne. It wasn’t a big suburb— hardly a suburb at all. You could walk around it in half an hour.
On the front passenger seat of the Ferrari was a copy of The Age, turned to Corin Makepeace’s Back Page column. Stan was alternately glancing at the photograph of the house from which Sean McCreadie was leaving, and the houses either side of the street as he drove slowly along. He was searching for a two-storey Victorian place, painted off-white, with a red front door and yellow roses all over the pillars that supported the porch.
Underneath the newspaper was his sawn-off shotgun.
Soon enough he turned into Powlett Street, and immediately something told him he was in the right ballpark. He slowed even more, examining each house. There were a lot of Victorian terraces. The few people he saw were old and genteel-looking. The whole area seemed to be an enclave for rich greyhairs, seeing out their days strolling around the neighbourhood and messing around in their gardens.
Stan stopped outside a large house with a red door. He held up the newspaper, eyes darting from photo to house, back and forth, matching up the details until he was sure he’d hit paydirt. He dropped the paper back on top of the shotgun just as two teenaged girls in school uniforms crossed the road in front of him. They both looked at the Ferrari, and at Stan, who stared back at them: go away, little girls. They wandered off, one of them giving Stan a last glance over her shoulder.
He drove on, passing the girls so slowly they looked a little nervously at him, as if he were going to try to pick them up. But the girls had already gone from Stan’s mind as he turned the next corner and did a lap of the block. He was now fully pre-occupied with thoughts of Shaun McCreadie, tapping the wheel with his fingertips as he tooled along the quiet streets. When he re-entered Powlett Street he made a decision to park well short of the house and wait for however long it took for McCreadie to show. Problem was, there were no spaces. This didn’t worry Stan: he double-parked alongside a Commodore and settled in for the wait, his motor idling. He turned on the radio and listened to golden oldies on 104.3, his eyes glued to the house in question. Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. Stan began to fidget. Patience was not his long suit. He surfed through the radio stations before coming back to the golden oldies: Lovin’ Spoonful’s ‘Hot Time In The City’. Gonna be hot for you, McCreadie—real soon I hope. Wanna see the look on your face just before I—
‘Excuse me,’ a man’s voice said beside him. ‘Would you mind moving? I have to get out.’
Stan looked at the guy: at least seventy-five, tweed jacket and hat, thick glasses, pocked nose. Looked like a retired professor or something. Then he noticed that the old coot was not looking at Stan anymore, but past him, at the newspaper. Stan took one look and said ‘shit’ under his breath. Part of the weapon was clearly visible—and this old bastard had clocked it. Stan quickly covered it up and moved forward enough for the Commodore to get out. He watched the guy in his rearview mirror. He took an eternity getting into the car, and then sat looking at the Ferrari for an equally long time. Go on, piss off, you prick. Eventually he drove away at a glacial speed. Stan was more than a little concerned now: while he was sitting in the car all that time, the old guy could’ve written down Stan’s registration number. Nosy old bastards like him were always doing things like that—he was probably the big banana in the local Neighbourhood Watch.
Fuck it. Stan now saw that he’d missed his chance. There were three people who could testify that he was at the scene prior to the killing of Sean McCreadie. As much as he loved the Ferrari he cursed it now. And he cursed Rick Stiles as well, the weak bastard. They could’ve done the job in Rick’s taxi, the perfect getaway car. There were hundreds of them, and they were all the same.
As he motored west along Victoria Street, on his way back home, Stan worked out a plan. At least he knew where to find McCreadie. But he could move anytime—maybe he had already, because of the newspaper thing—so Stan would have to shift his arse. Tomorrow he’d hot-wire a car, an ordinary old bomb no-one would remember. Then he would come back and put McCreadie right out of business.
As soon as he’d turned into Caversham Drive at around nine-fifteen in the morning, Shaun spotted the address in question. There was a tradesman’s vehicle out the front, from which two men were unloading a steel shutter. A third man was standing at the gate with his hands on his hips. Shaun drove slowly past the house and saw that it was a white, turn-ofthe-century stucco-and-timber bungalow with an untended lawn, on which children’s toys were scattered, and a dilapidated wire fence. There was shattered glass and debris and a gaping hole where the window had been. Shaun knew the scene inside would be a lot worse. A cold shiver ran down his spine. Even though he had never fired one outside of a police gun range he’d seen enough to realise that no weapon short of military hardware was more devastating or frightening than a shotgun. He parked in front of the next house and got out.
The man at the gate was maybe late thirties or a bit older, unshaved with terminally overlong sandy hair, denim jacket and worn-out jeans. Shaun remembered him vividly from the trial, and had no doubt it was Rick Stiles. Didn’t look to have aged much in eleven years. But then, this was the type of dude who would never change his image, even when he was on the pension—if he made it that far. As he approached, Shaun thought, this hippie bastard perjured himself and put me away for life.
He waited until the tradesmen had carried the shutter onto the lawn, then said to the man in the denim jacket,‘Rick Stiles, right?’
The man zeroed in on him with eyes that zoomed in and out.
‘Yeah,’ he said warily, scanning the street as if to see if Shaun was alone. Understandably, he was jumpy and nervous. Shaun saw that he had a band-aid on his neck, and another one on the back of his right hand. Up close he saw deep vertical creases etched into Stiles’ face, on which there were also lots of tiny cuts, like shaving nicks.
‘I’m Shaun McCreadie.’
Stiles focused on him, crossing and uncrossing his arms and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if he expected Shaun to take a swing at him. The guy was hyped to blazes. He was on something for sure.
‘Holy shit. So you are.’ He put his hands up defensively. ‘Hey, don’t shoot, man. I got enough bad shit to deal with here.’
‘I know,’ Shaun said. ‘Don’t worry, Rick. I’m not gonna give you any more problems. I just want to talk to you is all.’
‘How’d you know about it?’
‘Little birdie told me.’
Stiles’ pupils were dilating wildly. ‘What you wanna talk about, man? Jesus, I can’t believe it’s you.’
‘It’s me all right, Rick. Eleven years later.’
‘Yeah,’ Stiles said. ‘Eleven years.’ Now he was unable to maintain eye contact. Shaun noticed he had dirty fingernails and a couple of tattoos on his arms, mostly concealed by his jacket sleeves. ‘Well,’ he said, and his attention wandered back and forth, ‘I dunno what to say, man. Sorry doesn’t cut it.’
‘No, it does not. You lied on oath. If things hadn’t panned out differently I could still be inside, forever.’
Stiles squeezed his lips together and nodded. He had no words. All he wanted was for this person, this ghost, to leave him alone. Say his say, then go.
‘Listen, man,’ Shaun said. ‘I didn’t come here about that. I’m not after revenge. It’s over and done with. All I want is to hear your side of the story. I want to know what really happened that day. Understand?’
Stiles continued shifting around, running hands through his greasy hair, rubbing his chin, turning to spit on the pavement. Every gesture was indicative of his nervous, hyped-up state. Still, he was entitled to be nervous after having the front of his place shot to pieces. ‘Well, I’m the one that can tell you, that’s for sure.’
‘Wanna go for a little stroll? Th
ese guys are okay on their own, aren’t they?’
‘Yeah, sure, I guess . . .’ He glanced back at the workmen, who appeared to have matters in hand. But Stiles was far from sure about anything.
‘Come on then. This’ll be about an hour of your life, then I’m gone.’
‘Guess that’s not too much to ask, is it?’ Stiles said, and laughed vacuously. Shaun touched his arm and led him along the pavement. Not far down the street there was a small park containing some benches and a children’s playground. Shaun was anxious to get Stiles started while he was high. He had no doubt the guy would run like a tap once he was turned on.
They sat down on a wooden bench,and straightaway Shaun produced his cigarettes and offered one to Stiles: an old cop’s tactic to win the subject over. When they were both alight, Shaun said,‘You were pretty damn lucky the other night.’
‘Lucky? Christ, it was a fuckin’ miracle. I was coming out of the can when I heard the shots. Couldn’t fuckin’ believe it, man. If I’d been back on the couch, a few seconds later, watching TV . . .’ He shook his head and then sucked deeply on the cigarette, as if it were a reefer.
‘It was Stan, wasn’t it?’ Shaun said.
Stiles nodded. He was staring at the ground, reliving the horror of it.
‘Didn’t think he’d ever do anything like that,’ he said. ‘Shit. I got two little girls, man. They could’ve been injured or killed. And he’s supposed to be their godfather. Wife’s gone half-crazy . . . She’s taken ’em off to her mother’s.’
‘Well, that’s probably not a bad idea, while things get sorted out.’
‘I know,but shit . . .I just can’t believe he’d do that.Even now.’
‘You two used to be good mates.’
‘We were more than that,’ Stiles said.‘Much more.’
‘No longer, though,’ Shaun said.
‘He’s a very disturbed, dangerous person. Should be put down.’
‘You’re prepared to testify against him?’ Shaun said.
‘Bet your balls on it. I want to see him removed from this world. I’m not scared of him, ’cause I know him too well for that, but . . . shit, he’s a fuckin’ worry, isn’t he?’