Cross Off

by Peter Corris

  Tate had time for a quick check of his appearance in the hotel toilet before he boarded the ferry. His sweat-soaked shirt had dried out. There was very little blood on him, mostly on his shirt. He sponged it with water and a wad of toilet paper. Messy-looking, but not too bad. He pissed and saw the blood in his urine. The bitch had got him hard in the kidneys. Tate had had worse before and wasn't troubled. The pain in his balls had eased. He washed his face and combed his hair, re-hung his camera. There were grass and dirt stains on his clothes, particularly the knees of his trousers, and a few scratches on his face. He put on his sunglasses and baseball cap, and joined the crowd on the wharf. A number of the passengers were drunk, several were badly sunburned and a couple of young children were loudly fractious. Tate's magazine was still on the seat where he had left it. He settled down under a canvas awning, quiet, unobtrusive.

  The ferry pulled away from the dock and Tate experienced a mild relief. He doubted that Dunlop would have had time to get a message through to stop the sailing, but now there was ninety minutes ahead. How badly had he cut Ava? Would she die? Tate doubted it. A tough old bitch. But they were up to buggery in the scrub with no-one around. How long would it take to get help? Could be hours. Nothing to be done about it. If there was trouble at the marina he'd deal with it then. His car was there and he had a knife and a gun.

  The noisy children were placated. Passengers drank, dozed or conversed quietly. Tate forced himself to relax. He bought a can of mineral water at the bar and followed his usual practice of thinking things through logically. First, the diabetes. He'd missed an insulin injection and had a bad hypo. What to do? He injected half of his customary pre-lunch dose and trusted that it would counteract the big sugar load the Coca-Cola had put into his system. If he had no trouble at Port Douglas he could do a blood test and make further adjustments.

  Next, he turned to the problems he'd created for himself. He didn't waste time in self-criticism. He'd got turned-on and had made a mistake. Okay. And the woman had got lucky. And Dunlop was very good. The more he thought about it, the less it looked like a failure. He'd found out why Ava had dobbed Belfante and Frost in and maybe he'd thrown a big enough scare into her. Recalling the way she'd fooled him, pretending to be unconscious, letting him fuck her, Tate doubted it. She was game. But, at least for starters, he could argue that he'd taken the second option and settle for the lower fee. It was a possible solution. That was fine except that she'd seen him and maybe Dunlop had, too. That was going to put his peaceful retirement in Tasmania at risk. They'd have to go.

  Vance didn't see Grant Reuben for a few days and he kept clear of Frost. He had a lot of time to brood. He didn't expect Shelley to visit him in Long Bay. The shit had hit the fan when he'd been arrested. It all came out—his marriage to Ava, his business, associations, reputation, criminal record. By then, Shelley had had the baby, a boy, and was living in the house Vance had bought in Terrigal. It was little more than a suburban bungalow, a few blocks from the beach, but Shelley loved it. The corner block was big with trees around two sides and there was a large park across the street. She said it felt like the country and that was certainly true for Vance who spent as little time there as he could. Trees gave him the creeps.

  He was still fond of Shelley and the dark-eyed baby was unmistakably his. He wished he could feel more for him, little Peter. But Vance was surprised to find himself a traditionalist. Peter was a bastard and that was that. A son, but not a son. He couldn't tell his mother about him, couldn't be proud. If he could marry Shelley, even after the event, it would be different. No hope of that. A lot of his time and energy went into concealing the existence of Shelley and Peter from Ava and, for that matter, from everyone else. His business, already hit by the recession, suffered.

  He spent most of his time in the city and a lot of it with Ava. At least he could get it up with her again and they had some good old romps, like at first. Ava seemed to have a renewed interest in sex with him as well. She was good company, Ava. Good to get pissed with and she always had the latest gossip. She told a great joke. Vance had some deals on the drawing board—some good hash coming in, a big cigarette haul that looked very promising. All a bit risky, but good scores if they came off. Then that prick Rankin had started poking around and everything had gone wrong.

  Remand prisoners were not required to work and Vance hadn't volunteered. Now he was beginning to regret the decision. Time hung heavily. He sat in a corner of the exercise yard and smoked. He was smoking too much, developing a cough, and his gut was growing because he was eating all the crappy food out of boredom. And anxiety. He needed information. How long did it take to locate a boozy old bird and put a few questions to her the hard way?

  10

  Dunlop rode in the ambulance with Ava and the nurse. Cam Ritchie, the Aborigine, refused to go into town. Dunlop shook his hand and tried to give him a hundred-dollar note.

  Ritchie shook his head. 'No, mate.'

  'Got any kids?' Dunlop asked.

  The woman took the money. 'Thanks, mister. She'll be all right, your wife.'

  The young doctor, an Indian, made admiring noises as he removed the dressings. 'Very good. Very good.' He checked Ava's pulse and blood pressure, gave her a local anaesthetic and stitched the arm wound. The other injury he treated much as the nurse had done. There was blood on Ava's thighs and he cleaned it away to reveal a deep scratch near the entrance to her vagina. Bruises stood out darkly against the pale skin. 'This woman has been raped, I think.'

  'Yes,' Dunlop said. He had insisted on being present throughout.

  'The police have been called. She should sleep now.'

  Dunlop was met outside the treatment room by Detective Senior Sergeant Eddie Thomas. Dunlop produced his NBCI identification.

  'Right you are, sir. I'll have to make a report though.'

  'Witness protection, Sergeant. No names. Better ring up Cairns to get the right drill.'

  The sergeant nodded.

  'Mr and Mrs Ritchie were a tremendous help. I want you to know that.'

  'Good people,' Thomas said. 'It's what I'd expect.'

  Dunlop was shown to a waiting room and brought a cup of coffee. He felt drained and defeated. He put several spoonfuls of sugar into the strong coffee and drank it scalding hot. His body was exhausted but his brain hummed with questions. He stared at the blank wall. The room was so quiet he could hear his watch ticking. It ticked for a long time.

  'Excuse me, sir.'

  Dunlop jerked and groaned as his stiff muscles protested. The hard metal-framed chair seemed to have cut into his limbs. 'Jesus. You startled me.'

  'I'm sorry. I thought I should make sure you were all right. Also your wife is asking to see you.'

  Dunlop squinted at the name tag on the white coat—Dr Prasad. 'Thanks. I'm okay, doctor. How is she?'

  'Remarkably strong, considering. She insists on seeing you. She should rest, but . . .'

  Dunlop forced himself to stand up. 'She's like that. I won't tire her. Just a word.'

  'Very good. May I say something?'

  'Of course.'

  'It is this. A woman of her age is in great danger from excessive drinking and smoking. There are signs of a thrombosis in her legs and of impaired respiration. She should lose ten kilos and change most drastically her habits. I hope this is not offensive. I am in the business of saving lives, you see.'

  'It's quite all right, doctor. I agree with you absolutely. I don't suppose you'd have a tape recorder I could borrow.'

  Ava was in a private room as Dunlop had requested. She was propped up on pillows and a drip tube ran into her arm. She wore a white hospital gown and her hair had been combed. Her face was badly swollen and bruised and, without make-up, she looked almost fragile and vulnerable.

  She reached for Dunlop's hand. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm sorry. It was all lies, that stuff about Vance. All lies.'

  Dunlop gripped her hand. Several of the fingernails had been broken during her ordeal. 'It's okay, Ava.
You don't have to do any confessing just now. How d'you feel?'

  'Lousy. He was bloody rough. Scratched me a bit when he . . . Well, I've had worse. The cuts don't hurt much. I think I've still got a lot of painkiller in me. They won't let me smoke.'

  Concealing the action from Ava, Dunlop reached into his plastic bag and switched on the tape recorder borrowed from the ward sister. 'Right. You got a good look at him, didn't you?'

  'You bet I did! I'd know that bastard anywhere. Don't ask me to do one of those stupid bloody drawings though. Did those things ever catch anyone?'

  'I don't think so. Did he say anything?'

  'He knew I was lying about Vance.'

  'What?'

  'I said I didn't know who killed Rankin. I thought that was what he was on about. But it wasn't. He laughed. He knew I was lying about the evidence. I planted it, of course.'

  'Jesus. Go on.' A number of things had puzzled Dunlop—why the assailant hadn't just made a clean kill. Why he'd backed off when the odds were at least even. But he wanted to hear what Ava had to say spontaneously before putting questions to her.

  'He . . . he wanted to know why I'd dobbed Vance and George Frost in.'

  'Did you tell him?'

  Ava's eyes filled with tears. She sniffed and nodded. Dunlop handed her a tissue from the box on the bedside table.

  'Tell me.'

  'Vance got this young girl pregnant. He married her and set her up in a house in Terrigal.'

  'Married her?'

  'Yeah. What d'they call it? Went through a form of marriage. Poor little bitch. I knew he was on with someone. A woman can tell.'

  'Is that right?'

  'Let me give you a tip. If you're on with a big woman like me, a lady with a bit of bum on her, don't go stuffing pillows under her arse when you fuck.'

  Ava burst into tears. Dunlop felt helpless. He poured her some water and made her drink it. More tissues. More dabbing. More sniffing.

  'Shit, I need a smoke,' Ava said when she recovered. 'No good asking you.'

  'Could be your chance to quit.'

  'Bugger that. Well, I want to get this finished.'

  'Tomorrow'll do.'

  'Now's better.'

  'Sure, while the thing's fresh. Did you notice anything else about the man who grabbed you?'

  'Like what?'

  'Scars, moles, oddities, smell.'

  'He was sweating like a pig. His sweat fell on me and nearly made me throw up. He had a camera around his neck. Fucking thing hit me in the nose. How is my face?'

  'Not too bad. You'll mend. They're going to throw me out soon, so . . .'

  'What's going to happen to me?'

  'Nothing. I'll camp outside for as long as you have to stay.'

  'I mean—long-term.'

  'I don't know.'

  Ava took Dunlop's hand again. 'Thanks, Luke. I was dumb to piss off like that.'

  'Why did you?'

  'Fucking sentimentality. I wanted to see the old place all by myself. Who were those Abos?'

  'Name of Ritchie.'

  'I remember the Ritchies. Used to play with Ritchie kids. They were good people.'

  A nurse opened the door. 'The doctor says you should leave now.'

  Dunlop kissed Ava's pale forehead and left the room. Detective Senior Sergeant Thomas was waiting for him. Dunlop braced himself. Relations between the state police forces and the NBCI were not always good and he was aware that his initial attitude had been high-handed. It depended partly on the individuals how things worked out. Thomas was a tall lean man with gingery hair and complexion, wearing the trousers of a lightweight grey suit, a short-sleeved pale blue shirt, no tie. He carried a broad-brimmed hat.

  'How is she?' the policeman asked.

  'Okay. Needs rest.'

  'You look pretty beat yourself, Mr Dunlop. I need a few details from you but they can wait. I can arrange a guard for Mrs Browning. Why don't you come to my place? Nothing fancy, but it's more comfortable than here or at the station.'

  'That'd be great. Would you put that guard on now? I'll get cleaned up and then we'll have a talk.'

  It was not until he examined himself in the bathroom mirror at Thomas' house that Dunlop realised how forbearing and cooperative everyone had been. He looked more like an escaped prisoner than an officer of the law—his hair was lank with sweat and hanging in his eyes, his face was dirty and his clothes were blood-stained. He showered and put on the T-shirt and jeans Thomas had given him. The pants were too long and he rolled them up. Thomas' wife undertook to wash his slacks and shirt. She made him a ham sandwich and the policeman opened two cans of beer.

  Dunlop took a long swig. He hadn't tasted full strength beer for several years. 'This'll put me on my ear.'

  'That's okay. Everything's under control. We're assuming the assailant came and left on the ferry.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'I've got a few people asking questions. But the boat was back in Port Douglas before I knew what was up, so . . .' Thomas waved his can. 'Plus it's a bit hard without a description. I don't know how you want to play this.'

  'Yeah, he'll be well away by now. It doesn't matter. Not your problem. What d'you need from me?'

  'Something very general. How many shots fired, that sort of thing.'

  'Shit, I don't know. Two or three by him—with a silencer, the bastard. I don't know how many I fired.'

  'Three,' Thomas said. 'I checked your weapon while you were showering.'

  Dunlop grinned. 'And the ID, and a few other things.'

  'Pays to be sure. You're dropping. Stretch out and have a nap. One thing, there's a sort of message for you from Port Douglas.'

  Dunlop had eaten the sandwich and drained the can. He could scarcely keep his eyes open. 'Message?'

  'A woman named Torrielli, from the Oasis. She was concerned when you and Mrs Browning didn't come back. Is she in the picture?'

  'Not really.'

  'Any message?'

  Dunlop felt weightless. The cushion under his head was like a cloud. He smiled up at Thomas. 'Tell her I'll see her soon.'

  Ava was released from the hospital two days later. In a couple of brief meetings with Dunlop she had been depressed and incommunicative. She walked tentatively but unaided to the car Dunlop had hired to drive them back to Port Douglas. She was pale and had lost flesh. The shirt and skirt a nurse had been delegated to buy for her were not Ava's style. They toned her down, made her look older and slightly dowdy. She examined her reflection in the car window. The make-up could not conceal the battery she had suffered.

  'Jee-zus, I look like your auntie. Am I still protected, Luke?'

  Dunlop had made no report to Canberra. 'As far as I'm concerned you are. There'll have to be some talking though.'

  'Sure. Another couple of days at the Oasis okay?'

  'Why not?'

  Ava opened the door and winced as the action hurt her side. 'Let's make the pub the first stop. I'm dying for a drink and a smoke. Just because I look like a fucking nun doesn't mean I have to act like one.'

  On the drive south she smoked, swore as the bumps jolted her injuries and ran through the cassettes the car hire firm had supplied—Willie Nelson, Neil Diamond, Diana Ross, Michael Jackson. 'What sort of music do you like, Luke?'

  Dunlop considered. 'Rock 'n' roll, Frank Sinatra, Fats Waller, Beethoven.'

  'D'you play anything?'

  'I can't sing or play a note. My wife used to beg me not to sing around the house. Offered to pay me.'

  'Wife, eh?'

  'Long time ago.'

  Ava lit a cigarette and wound down the window. 'It was the baby that freaked me. I can't have any. Too many bloody abortions when I was young. I was always getting pregnant then. Look at a cock and I was up the duff. I didn't mind that Vance screwed around. I did the same. What the hell? But a kid and a dinky little house on the coast. Shit!'

  'How did you find out?'

  'Friend of mine saw them up there. I hired a private eye, would you believe?
Anyway, I decided to get back at him, but good. I knew Rankin's car was the same make and colour as Vance's and I'd heard on the news about them finding the body and the kind of car they were looking for. It sounded like Rankin's and I guess it was. I went up there, put a shovel in the ground and dirtied some gloves.'

  'What about the blood?'

  'I took a chance with that. Nearly half the population's O-positive. I am. It was my blood in the car, not Rankin's. I reckoned if they matched, so much the better. If not, no harm done.'

  'They matched.'

  'There you are, then. I wasn't going to let Vance and Frost be convicted.'

  'Weren't you?'

  'No. I hadn't figured out how, but I was going to put them in the clear when the time came. I just wanted to throw a fucking great scare into Vance.'

  'Well, you did. So much so that he sent that guy to kill you.'

  'Vance wouldn't do that.'

  'I've been thinking about it,' Dunlop said. 'The man who attacked you, you said he wanted to know why you lied, right?'

  'Yes.'

  'That points to Belfante and Frost. They must be very puzzled. They'd want answers, above all.'

  Ava was silent for several minutes. 'I think he would have killed me. I think he meant to from the beginning.'

  'Maybe.'

  'Ugh, I can still feel his sweat falling on me. What a pig. I've remembered something else, too. His breath was kind of ripe, sweetish. Sort of like he'd been drinking, but not exactly. Hard to describe. And the sweat had soaked into his shirt and through to his jacket.'

  'We'll get it all down. Don't worry about it now. How're you feeling?'

  'Weak and sleepy. How much further?'

  'Not far. Look at the view.'

  Ava grunted.

  'There's one thing that really puzzles me,' Dunlop said. 'Why was he so sure you were lying about Belfante and Frost?'

  11

  Ann Torrielli and Dunlop had had several telephone conversations while he was in Cooktown. She appeared as soon as he and Ava arrived at the Oasis.