He drove around the back, scraping the rear quarter panel on a fencepost as he entered the lane, and activated the garage door. As soon as he was inside he killed the motor, popped the trunk and leapt out. Grabbing up the cases he hurried to the door, past the wrought iron outdoor setting. Setting down one of the cases, he opened up and crashed inside with twelve minutes to spare.
The kitchen was a war zone.
Pritchett had her face-first against the window. In one hand was a bunch of her hair; in the other the pistol: locked, loaded and jammed so hard into the back of her head her nose was squashed into the glass. In the first split-second he saw that her shirt had been torn open, that there was blood on her face. Pritchett’s legs were braced apart as he leaned his weight into her. His fly was open, his shirt was in disarray, his hair was wild and he had deep vermilion scratches across his face, right under his eyes. On the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand the flesh was ripped—Christ, she’d bitten him. They were both heaving and gulping, and the air was still charged with the fierce heat from recent, intense violence.
Chairs were upended; the table had been shunted against the wall. The tiled floor was littered with smashed crockery and glassware and other things from the buffet and countertop. Where was the knife?
There: on the floor, amongst the rubble.
Pritchett didn’t care about the knife any more. He was in gun mode, and spoiling to use it.
‘Pritchett!’ he screamed.‘Pritchett! Don’t do it! I’ve got the cash!’ But Pritchett didn’t even seem to be aware that Shaun was in the room. He saw he was too late, that Pritchett was so enraged and out of it he was definitely going to blow her brains out right now. That bruised and bleeding gun-hand was flexed tight; the map of veins and sinews stood out as if chiselled from the spare, bony flesh.
But then, inexplicably, Pritchett seemed to cool off a degree or two. The bright, grey eyes flicked towards Shaun, sweeping over everything they needed to see, then his concentration reverted to the woman under his control. Sweat gleamed on his brow.
‘Feisty bitch, convict,’ he rasped. ‘Don’t mind that in a woman. Gets the old mojo revvin’, know what I mean?’
‘Let her go, Pritchett. It’s here. Look!’
He dumped one of the cases on the table with a loud bang and snapped it open. The compressed piles of tightly wadded currency sprang up.
That got more of Pritchett’s attention.
He gazed upon the riches, in so doing relaxing his grip on Jo’s hair. The gun wavered slightly from her head, drifting in Shaun’s general direction.
Seizing the moment, she tore away and threw herself at Shaun, burying herself in his arms. Now he saw what else he had done to her, but he believed that patch of blood around her lips was Pritchett’s, not hers. She was heaving and sobbing and holding on for dear life, as if being with him was enough to shut Pritchett out of her life.
But even with his arms tightly around her, pressing her hot face into his chest, Shaun knew it was nowhere near enough.
The next five minutes would tell the story.
Pritchett extended his right arm, aiming straight at Shaun’s face.
‘Man knows my name,’ he said, smiling with his empty eyes.‘Clever convict, but for that you must go down, obviously.’
‘Better check the other two cases first,’ Shaun said, coolly as he could manage.
Pritchett lowered the gun, seemingly undecided for a brief moment. He glanced at the two cases on the floor, then back at Shaun and the quivering, pathetic wreck in his arms.
‘Get ’em up on the table,’ he said, gesturing with the gun.
Shaun separated from Jo, easing her to one side, to his right and slightly behind him. Then he hefted both cases onto the table as instructed, before stepping back with a wisp of a smile. This clearly puzzled Pritchett, who seemed to smell a rat of some sort. Had the convict booby-trapped one of the cases, maybe?
What did he have to grin about? Maybe he was too stupid to know any different . . .
‘Open ’em,’ he ordered.
Shaun counted to three, then stepped up and snapped one of them open. Currency sprang up as before. Pritchett’s empty grey eyes were wide; his tongue did a slow lap of his slightly parted, chapped lips. The blood on his hand dripped on the floor, but he didn’t notice, or care.
Again he looked at Shaun, as if trying to figure out what his game was. Bastard was still grinning.
‘And again,’ he ordered, and pointed at the third case with the pistol.
Shaun held his eyes, even as his hands moved towards the case. Pritchett was frowning and smiling at the same time. Shaun’s fingertips tentatively sought out the clips to spring the case. Pritchett’s eyes switched from Shaun’s to the silver case. Then he aimed his pistol at it, as if preparing to shoot whatever came at him once the lid was opened.
Shaun caught a blur of movement behind Pritchett.
From nowhere came the sickening crunch of fist on bone; such was the force of the blow that Pritchett’s entire head went out of shape, and reddish bits of his teeth spat through the air. Jo found her voice with a glass-splitting scream as Pritchett crashed against the countertop and swayed a second on loose, rubber legs; two gunshots hit the ceiling and a third blasted through the window as his arms swung loosely around, firing at random and, it seemed, without even intending to. Wes Ford came at him, grabbing his throat in both hands and swinging him back towards the table in the style of an Olympic hammer thrower. Pritchett slid over the tabletop, scattering silver cases and wads of cash before hitting the wall hard, flush on his battered face.
The gun spilled from his hand.
Down he went, between the table and the wall, all gangly arms and legs.
Straightaway Shaun pulled the table clear, dragging it over the mix of rubble and currency, to get a clear go at Pritchett. He put the boot in two, three times as Pritchett instinctively curled up to minimise damage. Then he swivelled his head around by the hair.
It was an ugly spectacle. He was a total mess: jawbone and teeth smashed, the jaw swinging loose; tongue and lips reduced to chopped liver; the whole face, even his eyes, were awash with the blood that still spilled from his nose, mouth, even his ear. The whole left side of his face was way up.
Pritchett gave a wet moan. Shaun released the head and let it drop. He glanced around at Wes, who was wringing his unclenched right fist, holding it by the wrist and muttering: ‘Christ. Christ Almighty.’
Jo stood still and silent now, arms wrapped around her front, staring down at Pritchett.
Shaun came towards her as Wes sucked air, doubling over and wringing the badly damaged right hand.
In that instant Pritchett was on his feet.
He grabbed a chair and hurled it at Wes, hitting him on the arm; then he leapt at Shaun, screaming horribly, the blood flying from his mouth. Before Shaun had time to react or even believe what he was seeing Pritchett grabbed his face, trying to tear the flesh from it; Shaun tried to punch on, but they were too close, Pritchett was all over him, and all he could do was try to wrestle him off. But Pritchett was strong: he wrenched and twisted Shaun’s face, forcing him sideways, then shoved him away towards the shattered window as he groped among the rubble and cash on the floor for his gun . . .
He brought it up, swinging it this way and that, trying to pinpoint his target through the screen of red. A couple of rounds went in Wes’s direction, but Wes had been alert enough to disappear from harm’s way, and the bullets thudded into the staircase. Then a third sailed through the window, ricocheting off the garage roof and into space.
He wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to clear his vision. But Shaun had already charged at him, at the gun.
They grappled. Wes reappeared with a crystal vase in his good hand, waiting for a chance to smash it over Pritchett’s head. But considering his rangy build and the extent of his injuries, Pritchett’s strength and stamina were astonishing. With an insane will he forced Shaun around towa
rds Wes’s poised arm, thereby blocking any attempt to crown him, then wrenched the gun free of Shaun’s grasp. Momentum then caused him to stagger back against the table’s edge, where he again brought up the weapon with a terrible howl.
‘Pritchett!’
The scream came from his right. Immediately he turned towards the sound of his name, just in time to see the better part of nine inches of high-priced, tempered German steel plunge into his chest. His bloodied eyes fixed on the blade, which had sliced through the soft connective tissue between his ribs and into the left side of his heart, then on the woman’s hands gripping it like grim death.
She released the blade and backed away, watching him.
Pritchett looked curiously at Jo, then at the knife with some surprise. Dropping the pistol he made an effort to pull out the blade, but all that did was slash his hands. He slid onto the floor and sat down on a pile of cash. Again he looked at Jo, apparently in an effort to say something, but his eyes had started to flutter and any semblance of life was rapidly leaving his features. He gave a sigh, spasmed briefly as if someone had walked over his grave, then his head fell back. His eyeballs travelled up, his body went slack and then he crossed over into uncharted territory.
They all stood around and watched him go, not quite accepting it until a long minute had passed with no sign of a second miraculous revival.
Wes Ford was first to break the silence.
‘Shit,’ he said. He was still holding the crystal vase.
Shaun had one arm around Jo’s neck, pressing her face into his shoulder. He was staring at the corpse, its eyes and mouth agape, hands flat on the floor at its sides with the cut and bloodied palms turned up. He could feel Jo trembling right through her body, but she wasn’t crying.
‘Cops’ll be here soon,’ he said.‘Better do something with the money. Otherwise . . . it’s, uh, gonna complicate the whole deal.’
Scads of it littered the floor.
‘We should call triple-oh anyway,’ he said. ‘Got a phone there, Wes?’
‘You bet,’ Wes said, and tossed it over with his good hand. Jo turned from Shaun’s shoulder and drew some strands of hair from her eyes. The carnage was something to behold. She moved a foot and crunched porcelain.
‘Pack it all up, put it back under the staircase,’ she said. ‘Before you call triple-oh.’
They set about it quickly and carefully, picking up currency from every corner of the kitchen, even moving Pritchett’s corpse to remove the bloodstained wads he was sitting on. When the cases were safely stowed, Shaun hit 000, requesting police and an ambulance. When the dispatcher had told him the cavalry was on its way he closed the little piece and handed it back to Wes, who was still gripping his wrist.
‘You did good, Wes,’ he said. Simple words, but Wes understood the weight they carried.
‘The way I see it,’ Shaun said, ‘we were here, all three of us, uh . . . planning to go out for lunch . . . then the doorbell goes, this bastard forces his way in and turns our world upside-down. He holds us at gunpoint, assaults Jo. Uh . . . we have a go at him, Wes and I, he shoots up the place, and in the confusion one of us stabs him.’ Glancing at Jo he said,‘I don’t mind wearing that, since I’m tainted anyway.’
Somehow he knew what her view on that would be.
‘No,’ she said calmly. ‘I did it, and I’d do it again.’
‘Fair enough,’he said.‘So,any problems with the story,Wes?’
‘Nope,’ Wes said. ‘But . . . people in the street might have seen our comings and goings.’
‘Fuck the people in the street,’ Jo said. ‘We stick to our version, back each other up.’
‘Sure,’ Wes said. ‘Fuck the people in the street. We should know what happened.’
‘Has to be straight and simple,’ Shaun said. ‘Try to be too clever, and we’re in shit.’
‘Got it,’ Wes said.
Shaun said, ‘Anyhow, I’d say that once they discover who he was they’ll be so busy high-fiving each other they won’t give a rat’s arse about the details.’
‘Uh, who was he?’ Wes said.
‘You don’t need to know. Better if none of us does. He’s just this . . . bastard, come in off the street.’
‘No arguments there,’ Wes said.
‘I’ll tell you all about him later,’ Shaun said. ‘Right now I’m going upstairs, turn the place upside-down like he’s ransacked it.’
In a few minutes sirens pulled up outside, followed by a commotion. The bell rang, then came a loud, insistent pounding on the door. There was the crackling of urgent-sounding voices on two-way radios.
‘Sounds like the SWAT team’s here,’ Shaun said. ‘Everyone set?’
Jo and Wes nodded grimly. Then Shaun negotiated his way through the chaos towards the front.
25
Five days later . . .
‘You know, I can’t believe your form has turned around so radically, Steer,’ Oliver said as he adjusted his paisley Dolce e Gabbana bow-tie. ‘I mean . . . you really cleaned me up today.’
‘Situation normal,’ Raydon said, slipping into his patent-black English wingtips. ‘C’est juste.’
‘No need to be arrogant,’ Oliver said.‘Not so long ago you were a sorry spectacle.’
‘You’re right, McEncroe. I must learn to be more modest and gracious. But as the song goes, it’s hard to be humble, especially when one vanquishes the resident champion in straight sets.’
‘You had the angles covered this time.’
‘I did.’
They went outside into the early evening. The air was soft, uplifting.
‘Cocktail hour,’ Raydon said. ‘How about it?’
‘Count me in,’ Oliver said.
When they were sitting in a cosy bar with double-shots of aged Scotch on ice in front of them, Oliver said,‘Well, here’s to it.’
‘Indeed.’ Raydon swirled and sipped. ‘So, you’re sure it’s all over with, McEncroe?’
Oliver nodded.‘According to my source, when Henry Agar was murdered, this Tamsin Mascall person developed a severe case of cold feet and disappeared. Hasn’t surfaced since. Then when the pimp Terry Pritchett finds himself on the receiving end of your . . . ex-wife’s wrath, all the bent cops in Sydney run for cover. My contact Patchouli says the tents have definitely been folded on the whole scam.’
Raydon nodded. But he seemed somewhat distracted.
‘How’s Jo?’ Oliver said.
‘Oh, she’s fine, by all accounts. Tough as all get out, that one. I just don’t understand what this . . . Pritchett piece of shit was doing there in the first place.’
Oliver shifted slightly. ‘Well, he was in league with Agar, remember? They were a team. Agar was a professional snoop: what he couldn’t dig up via his devious contacts is nobody’s business. But then they fell out, as thieves do, and Pritchett decided to go it alone.’
‘I see that,’ Raydon said. ‘But who was his target? McCreadie, or Jo? Since McCreadie is supposedly the one with the stash . . .’
‘I’m not sure, Steer. Perhaps he discovered through the criminal grapevine that McCreadie was staying there with your wife. That isn’t totally implausible. In fact, it was in the paper.’
‘Yes,’ Raydon said. ‘Still, it’s odd . . .’
‘The main thing is, he’s dead, and we are free of the whole affair.’
‘True,’ Raydon said, and sipped.
‘What news of the appointments?’ Oliver said after a short, subject-changing silence.
‘Monday, according to father. Just has to be rubber-stamped by the Governor.’
‘And?’
‘And yes, McEncroe. It seems I am to be appointed to the Supreme Court bench after all. But it’s not official yet. Don’t shout it from the rooftops.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
They touched glasses.
‘You are a lucky bastard, Steer,’ Oliver said.
‘I suppose in some ways I am,’ Ray
don said diffidently.
‘Things could have turned out a lot worse for you.’
‘I can’t deny that.’
‘And once you’re on the bench, you cannot carry on with your wicked ways.’
‘I am suitably chastised, McEncroe—and grateful, old friend. Gave me a decent old scare, the whole episode.’
‘No doubt.’
‘You can expect prompt payment of your exorbitant fee.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Steer. My fee is waived.’
‘Seriously? Good Lord. What sort of precedent is that for the legal profession?’
‘I’ll count it as a credit instead. Who knows? The day might come when I have to approach the Great One on bended knee, cap in hand.’
‘As you wish, McEncroe. All I require is that you do so with all due obsequiousness.’
‘But of course, your Worship.’ He steepled his elegant hands and lowered his eyes.
After a pause, Oliver said, ‘Any chance with Jo?’
‘Afraid not. It appears she’s thrown in her lot with this . . . ruffian. So be it. I bear no ill will. In any case, I wouldn’t want her back now that she’s become a gangster’s slut. Soiled goods and all that.’
‘Harsh words coming from you, Steer. She is the mother of your children.’
‘I suppose one can rise to the occasion. Settle in a civilised manner, make proper arrangements for the boys . . .’ He shrugged. ‘McEncroe, call me dense if you will, but there’s quite a bit I don’t . . . grasp about this vale of grief and sorrow we live in. But then, I suppose, I’m just a Supreme Court judge after all.’
‘Absolutely, Steer. And let’s hope you don’t put your foot in a mop bucket on your first day in court.’
Raydon exploded into laughter, and after a moment Oliver joined in, uproariously, slapping the table as if it were an Old Boys’ night out.
Shaun and Jo were sitting opposite Dave Wrigley in his partitioned workspace at the homicide squad offices in the St Kilda Road Police Complex. Dave was wearing a pale blue lightweight cotton shirt through which Shaun could see the short sleeves of his white tee shirt. He leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head, making his impressive biceps and pectorals even more apparent. A recent buzz-cut completed the warrior image.
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