by Peter Corris
He slowed and stopped at a light he would usually have speeded up to get through. A car behind him braked suddenly. The women sauntered down the footpath and crossed in front of him. He was dead certain—she had the look and the walk. He was alarmed to find that there was something familiar about the younger woman as well. Not the hair under the black hat, not the clothes, but something. They were walking back up Oxford Street. Tate turned left and left again. The blocked-off streets frustrated him. He pulled in to the kerb and jumped from the car. He jogged quickly, turned again and there they were, walking close together, laughing, like a couple of dykes.
A grey Datsun was making the turn into the street behind them, turning slowly, going nowhere. Tate walked along in the shadows, keeping the women and the car in sight. A lookout vehicle for sure. He crossed the road behind it, glanced up and saw the white jacket and the black hat and the leather suit and the red hair enter a narrow brick-paved street closed to cars. The Datsun went past. Automatically, Tate committed its registration number to memory. Then he spun on his heel and walked fast. His heart was pounding and he could feel his sugar level dropping under the stress. He could have caught up by running but he didn't dare. He reached the paved street in time to see a beam of light and hear a surge of music cut off as a door was sharply closed.
Tate's mind was functioning with mechanical clarity as he retraced his steps to his car. All thoughts of sexual indulgence left him. He was the calculating professional again. No surprise to find Ava in this neck of the woods—Paddington, where she'd been seen in a TAB, where he would have looked himself if he hadn't decided to abandon the idea of killing her. It was her companion that he was focusing on. He'd seen her before. Where? In what connection? He needed to be somewhere quiet to think. Somewhere without distractions and stimuli. He got into his car and drove towards the sea.
The waves beat in on Tamarama beach. Tate sat in his car, parked in a quiet street overlooking the water. He gazed out into the darkness; the driver's window was half open to let in fresh air and the soothing sound of the surf. Tate concentrated, thinking back through the events of the past few weeks. He knew the answer lay somewhere in his memory, somewhere in the jumble of semi-recollected impressions. He sat for two hours before he locked onto the right image. The security woman at Port Douglas! The one who'd sat with Dunlop while the slut was off screwing. What the hell was going on here?
Tate drove back to Randwick in an agitated state. His blood sugar level was up now. The metabolism was uncertain, sometimes secreting glucose into the bloodstream to cope with stress, sometimes burning it up. He felt weak and unwell. Another couple of glasses of wine made him feel worse. He tried to think clearly but he was muddled and uncertain. There had been something strange about the behaviour of Ava and the security woman. Something wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew he was right. What was the connection between them—Ava, Dunlop and the other woman? He couldn't fathom it and he was troubled.
He concentrated on the bare facts. No attempt at disguise for Ava but a companion, possibly armed and experienced. A lookout car keeping tabs, not very skilfully. The happiness he'd experienced earlier had quite drained away. He had more work to do before he could feel secure enough to go to Tassie and live as he wanted to. He smashed his right fist into the palm of his left hand. Bastards! Up to something. Well, he knew where they were and they knew nothing about him. For Dennis Tate, Vietnam vet, mercenary and legionnaire, surely that was enough of an edge.
20
At ten a.m. the following day Dunlop was sitting in a meeting with Burton and Peters. Burton had caught an early flight from Canberra and was tired, underslept. Peters looked worried.
'So it's the same man?' Burton said.
Peters nodded. 'They found a plastic strip in the toilet at Reuben's place. It hadn't flushed away. Diabetics piss on these strips to test their sugar levels.'
'There was a .22 casing found in Centennial Park where Belfante was done,' Dunlop said. 'Same sort of bullets for Reuben and Frost.'
Burton tapped a set of photographs spread out on the table in front of him. The big, blown-up black and whites showed the corpses of Reuben and Frost. 'That ties together the attempt on Mrs Belfante at Cooktown, Vance Belfante and these two. But it doesn't tell us anything about Rankin which, you may remember, is still our main concern.'
Dunlop had almost forgotten this or had relegated it to a secondary position. He wanted the hit man, whether he'd done the Rankin job or not. One theory about his father's death was that an electric shock he'd received had triggered his cancer. Maybe the same was true in Ava's case. The trauma of the rape and knife attack releasing the deadly cells. He was still debating whether to tell Burton and Peters about the cancer.
It was the news of the deaths of Belfante, Reuben and Frost that had brought Burton to Sydney, but there had been another development. The driver of the Datsun had followed Roy and Ann to Little Lloyd Street and then made his way back to the garage. He was almost there when something he had seen in the nearby streets registered as significant—a hastily parked, crookedly aligned blue car. A Subaru sportswagon. The driver had returned quickly to the street where he'd seen the Subaru but it had gone.
'We have to conclude that he's seen Ava or someone he believes to be Ava,' Dunlop said. 'We have to allow that he knows which house she's in.'
Burton nodded and plucked at some hairs sprouting from a hastily shaved spot on his jaw. 'I suppose so.'
Peters said, 'It looks as though he's going about eliminating people who can identify him or connect him to this business.'
'Which includes Ava,' Dunlop said. 'He'll come. I'm sure of it.'
'A resolution via investigation would be preferable,' Burton said. 'Nothing on the cross-checking of registration and diabetic licence-holders?'
Peters shook his head. 'No. It was always a long shot. The vehicle could have interstate registration and the same could be true of his licence. One thing, the police believe the man who killed Belfante was riding a bicycle.'
Burton's eyebrows shot up. 'A bicycle?'
'Right. Tyre marks and so on. We have casts, but finding a bicycle in Sydney . . .'
'Quite,' Burton said. 'And how is Mrs Belfante bearing up?'
This was the opening for Dunlop to tell them about Ava's condition. Somehow, he didn't want to do it. Ava hadn't sworn him to secrecy but she had a right to privacy over this. And he wouldn't put it past these cold-blooded bastards to stake her out in the middle of Oxford Street as totally expendable if they knew. 'She's fine,' he said. 'Very committed.'
Peters said, 'And how's Roy Waterford performing?'
'He's good,' Dunlop said. 'Very good.'
Burton's response was an ironical snort. 'You have to understand my position,' he said. 'This is becoming an increasingly expensive operation. While there were still charges against Belfante and Frost and Reuben was suspected of complicity, it was possible to justify de facto the continued protection of Mrs Belfante, but as things now stand . . .'
Peters stepped in quickly. 'Three murders in one day. The police and the CCA are under a lot of pressure, too. We're also incurring expenses, but we think they're justified.'
'I quite see your point. But three dead New South Wales criminals doesn't get anyone very excited in Canberra. Our brief is national, as Mr Dunlop is well aware.'
Dunlop sighed. He was all too familiar with the bureaucratic approach. 'You're putting us in a time frame?'
'Five days,' Burton said. 'Surely there's some way you can . . . turn up the heat?'
Burton and Peters left the room and Dunlop sat with his copies of the photographs of the death scenes and other documents in front of him. In another context, in terms of intelligence and executive operations he'd been involved in as a policeman, say, he would have admired the total professionalism of his opponent. The ability to leave a murder scene without being noticed, the cool collection of the bullet casings, the absence of fingerprints were impressive. The two mi
stakes, the needle cap and the reagent strip, suggested that he wasn't yet completely accustomed to being a diabetic. Should have doubled-checked his syringes, flushed the toilet twice. Give him time, he'd get better.
Time was what Dunlop didn't have. It might be a factor for the hit man, too. There was a suggestion of haste in his actions, but perhaps that was merely efficiency. No way to tell. A bicycle rider. Fitness. Ava had said he looked fit. The four-wheel-drive suggested an outdoors type. An expert marksman and not bad with a knife. Presumably only a hypoglycaemic attack had stopped him carving Ava up. That, plus her own courage and resourcefulness. Dunlop tried to assemble the clues into a meaningful pattern. He was straining to almost communicate with his quarry. At the very least to anticipate what his next move might be.
Nothing useful occurred to him. He could visualise the man pretty clearly, thanks to Penny's sketch and the other available information, but inspiration was absent. Ex-army, Dunlop guessed, which was useless, if not an actual discouragement. Dunlop had no knowledge of, or insight into, the military mind. He sipped some of the lukewarm water in the glass he'd poured on first sitting down and immediately forgotten. He thought about Ava. How different she was now from the wild rager he'd accompanied to Queensland, and how much the same. He wondered if she might be snowing him about the cancer. Pretending to be fatalistic to egg him on to more dangerous strategies. He shook his head. Suspicion and distrust were the chief occupational hazards of his trade, but they didn't have to go that far.
He sipped some more water and thought about Ann. Would Ava tell her what had happened, despite her promise not to do so? Would Ann guess anyway? He remembered the way Ann had laughed when she came through the door with Roy, holding hands. And how she'd looked at him and Ava. The sexual spectrum was broad, as Dunlop, a former detective of the Kings Cross station, well knew. There were men and women who liked to blur the roles, got their kicks, even their capability, that way. Ann and Roy had looked good together, better, probably, than he and Ava—the one-time call girl and the one-time cop.
Dunlop tapped his papers together and slid them into a manila folder. He felt depressed, almost defeated. Life was too complicated. He left the room and walked through the sterile corridors of the floor in the building occupied by the CCA. He went down the stairs and emerged on the ground floor leased by the recruiting and public relations offices of the Australian Army. As he surveyed the posters extolling the benefits of an army career, the qualifications to be gained, the opportunities to be seized, he realised that the only person with military experience he could consult was Roy Waterford, who he knew had served with peace-keeping forces in Cyprus and Africa.
Tate was astonished at the amount of misleading information contained in the newspaper account of the deaths of Reuben and Frost. The circumstances that had led to the early discovery of the bodies—an accidental triggering of the car alarm on Reuben's BMW, an irate neighbour's attempt to rouse the owner changing to concern—he had to accept as factual, but the confused accounts of times of arrival, muddled sightings of suspicious characters and reports of unusual noises, made him laugh. If ever there had been a clean hit, this was it. He dismissed the matter from his mind as he folded the paper. He cleaned up his meagre breakfast dishes and turned his attention to the problem at hand.
He had not slept well and his blood sugar level was fluctuating again. After the brief euphoria of the night before when his course seemed so simple, the necessity for a rethink and a new direction disturbed him. He had awoken feeling frowsty and without appetite. The newspaper story had helped to dispel this. The authorities were so stupid and had to rely so heavily on other people even more stupid than themselves. The man with training, experience and a clear purpose had a considerable advantage.
Although too undisciplined and insubordinate to be considered officer material, Tate had learned a great deal from soldiering. One of the lessons he had absorbed early, because it involved his personal safety, was that full frontal attack inevitably led to heavy casualties and only sometimes to the taking of the objective. Obviously, a one-man team couldn't afford casualties. Theoretically, the options were numerous—a flanking attack, a feint, a diversionary tactic, a siege, infiltration.
The current edition of Gregory's Street Directory served as his field map. He studied the area around Little Lloyd Street closely, noted the proximity of Moore Park and the Barracks, marked police stations, car parks, one-way and blocked-off streets. The weather favoured his half-formed plan. The sky was overcast and a cool southerly wind blew in gusts. Light rain spattered against the window of his flat. Tate dressed in jeans and boots. His flannel shirt had deep front pockets into which he put a spare magazine for his .22 pistol, lock picks, a Swiss army knife and several pieces of barley sugar. He strapped the knife in its sheath to his forearm and put on a knee-length raincoat with a hood. A black balaclava, a length of light cord, a roll of insulation tape and the .22 went into one pocket, his insulin, swabs and two syringes into the other.
Tate took an overnight bag from under his bed and packed it with two thermoses of coffee, one milky and heavily sugared, the other black. He put the Ruger .38 he had taken from Vance Belfante in the bag along with a stubby, dismantled semi-automatic rifle and two spare magazines. On top of the weapons he put a sweater, the newspaper he had been reading and a copy of Wheels and one of Road and Track. He zipped up the bag and left the flat. The rain had stopped but the wind was still gusting and there would be more showers. He drove to a service station in Alison Road, had the vehicle filled with LPG and checked right around. Then he drove to Paddington.
His plan was to locate the Datsun he had seen following the two women and thereby the headquarters of the support team. Tate had no doubt there would be one and it would be situated close to Little Lloyd Street. There was no other way to conduct the sort of operation he was facing. That was another certainty—that Ava's public appearances, and the arrangements surrounding them, were a trap. For all his yen for Tasmania, Tate, by nature fiercely competitive, felt challenged. The stakes were almost too high but he felt obliged to play, at least as far as he could. With luck and skill, that would be far beyond the capacity of his opponents. There was another thing, he reflected as he parked in a non-restricted section of Moore Park Road. He'd cocked up two jobs before the neat work of yesterday. The fucking diabetes hadn't helped. He wanted to go out on a high note. Show he was one of the best. The best. It was a question of pride.
The rain fell again, heavier. He pulled up his hood, carried the bag over his shoulder and began his search. He knew what he was looking for—somewhere to house two or more vehicles with no problems of access, plus an operations room equipped with telephones and radio. It had to be close, very close, and there couldn't be too many possibilities in the area. The traffic patterns limited the options. He had the number of the Datsun. He was confident that he'd find what he was looking for. And they didn't know he was coming.
21
'Ava seems better,' Roy Waterford said. 'Either you cheered her up, Lucas, or she likes the idea of a killer coming after her. Turns her on, maybe. Hmm?'
Dunlop ignored Roy's fishing expedition. He was sitting in the front room of the Little Lloyd Street cottage, drinking coffee, after an unproductive discussion of military tactics. The talk hadn't been helped by Waterford's outfit—skin-tight black velvet trousers, a white frilly blouse and high heels. He wore an ash blonde wig but hadn't got around to applying make-up. The effect was bizarre and made Dunlop irritated. He had to assume that the killer knew where they were and something about their organisation. Given that, there was no point in concealing his own presence. No point either, possibly, in Roy's masquerade.
Roy read Dunlop's mood and drifted off to the bathroom. Ava and Ann were upstairs. The schedule called for Ava to visit the local TAB and place some bets, but Dunlop was unsure whether to go ahead with this or not. The new developments had left him uncertain and edgy and made him question the whole strategy. What had he im
agined happening? A stabbing attempt in the street? A nocturnal intrusion? Bullshit. The only defence was attack. They had to find the killer before he made a move. They knew he was hooked and knew what he looked like. Abruptly, Dunlop stood up and pulled on his raincoat. It was a matter of surveillance, watching in shifts, communications.
Ann came down the stairs. 'Luke, what're you doing here? I thought . . .'
'Yeah. I had to talk to Roy. Look, I don't think Ava should go out today. Things have changed.'
Ava appeared at Ann's shoulder. She was dressed in the same clothes as Roy and carrying a poplin trench coat. 'We were going to toss for it,' she said. 'Winner goes to the TAB, loser stays in and does her nails.'
Dunlop exploded. 'It's not a fucking joke, Ava! There's a bloke out there who wants to blow your fucking head off!'
Ava flared. 'You think I don't know that? I don't give a fuck. Bugger the tossing. I'm going out. Roy, forget it. I'm going with Ann.' She clattered down the stairs.
'No,' Dunlop moved to block her.
'What the hell is this?' Ann said. 'What's going on? Why is everyone losing their cool here?'
Roy spoke from the bathroom. Made-up, he was Ava's twin again. 'Not me.'
'You shut up,' Dunlop snarled.
Ava lit a cigarette and blew smoke at him. 'What's got into you? Coming the little Hitler. I thought we were a team here.'
'Ava, I don't want . . .'
Ann turned towards Roy, who was leaning through the serving hatch adjusting the top of his padded bra. 'Sounds like a lover's tiff,' she said.
Dunlop's hands dropped to his sides. 'Jesus, Ann . . .'
Roy looked at the thin gold watch on his wrist. 'We have to get this sorted out pretty quickly. It's going on for twelve-twenty. Ava's already missed the first race. What was your selection, darling?'
Ava laughed. 'You're a hoot, Roy.'