by Peter Corris
'Aren't I, though?'
The exchange calmed Dunlop. He glanced at Ann, who was smiling apologetically at Ava. He took off his coat. 'I'm sorry for all that. I've just come from a meeting with the higher-ups who were telling me to turn on the heat or something.'
'Turn up the heat,' Ann said. 'Well you did it, though not the way they meant. What do they mean?'
Ava took a form guide from her bag and sat down. She ran her finger down the page. 'Nothing serious until the third at one-fifteen. Plenty of time. I suppose your bosses mean I should parade along Oxford Street with a sandwich board. Ava Belfante. Aim here. I'm all for it.'
'Don't be silly,' Ann said. 'It's a waiting game, isn't it, Luke?'
Dunlop nodded. 'The trouble is they put a time limit on us. Five days.'
Ann shook her head. 'That's ridiculous, you'll have to talk them out of that.'
A discussion followed in which Dunlop made a case for increased manpower and close, round-the-clock watches on the house. Ava was for greater exposure; Ann sided with Dunlop; Roy said he wished there was some way they could go on the offensive. The radio crackled on the bench beside him. Roy picked it up, listened and said, 'Right.'
'What?' Dunlop said.
Roy brushed back a strand of hair. 'Charlie Porter's coming in for some reason. I'll just slip away. He makes me nervous. So butch.' He slid back the bathroom door and went inside.
'I wonder what he wants?' Ann said.
Dunlop shrugged. 'I need to talk to him anyway.'
Tate found the base in Little Charles Street shortly after eleven a.m.—much sooner than he'd expected. He congratulated himself on his planning. The grey Datsun was parked just inside the roller door, its number plate clearly visible. The workshop's windows to the street had been boarded up and the marks where innumerable tyres had passed over the footpath, going in and coming out, were faded by sun and rain. A rusted piece of guttering drooped towards the street. But there were newer tracks laid down by well-shod vehicles and other signs of recent occupation—a clean window in one of the rooms above the workshop, a new electric cable running up the side of the building.
There was a small park across from the auto-electrician's. Tate sat on a bench in thin, watery sunlight, drank two cups of the sweet coffee and watched. He saw some movement at the first floor window. A man came out and took something from the Datsun but did not move the car. After ten minutes a motorcycle pulled up. The rider dismounted and wheeled the bike inside the workshop. He was met by the one who'd been to the car. They moved back, out of sight. More movement upstairs. Right, Tate thought, three of them, two vehicles and all at home. No time like the present. He slung his bag back onto his shoulder, crossed the road and walked in under the roller door. The man standing behind the Datsun smoking a cigarette looked up.
'Sorry, mate we're not . . .'
Tate unzipped his bag and took out the Gregory's—a harmless, familiar item. He opened it at random. 'I'm looking for this mechanic . . .'
The man bent forward to look at the page. Tate dropped the directory and whipped up the Ruger. He shoved it hard against the man's nose.
'Jesus, don't . . .'
'Turn around.'
'What?'
'Turn around!'
The man turned. Tate smashed the butt of the pistol twice against the side of his head. The man groaned, sagged. Tate brought the butt down hard on the top of his skull and the man fell in a heap. Tate quickly tied his hands and feet with cord, wound several turns of insulation tape tightly over his mouth and rolled him underneath the car. Then he took out the rifle and assembled it. He put the Ruger in his coat pocket and his bag in the front seat of the Datsun, taking care to close the door noiselessly.
A short flight of wooden steps at the back of the workshop led to the upper level. Tate put on the balaclava and went up the steps quickly. Two rooms, a kitchenette and a toilet. A man was making coffee at a laminex-topped bench. He whistled as he worked. Tate could hear noise in the next room—a match, a cigarette being lit. He lowered the rifle, took out the .22 and moved to the open door of the kitchenette. The coffee-maker, whistling tunelessly, was standing back, waiting for the water to boil in the electric jug. Tate raised the silenced pistol and shot him twice in the head. The whistling ceased and the man fell heavily, noisily.
'Joel, you okay? Joel?'
The man who appeared in the doorway was tall, fair and overweight. His belly strained at his waistband. His second chin folded down over the collar of his modish blue shirt and the knot of his striped tie as his mouth opened when he saw Tate and looked into the muzzle of the rifle.
'Back,' Tate said. 'And be careful.'
The fat man dropped his cigarette and stumbled back into the room. Tate followed, stepping on the cigarette as he went. It was a small room, containing a sofa, a table and two chairs. A portable two-way radio unit was on the table. A flak jacket lay on the sofa along with an assault rifle and a pistol. The man's eyes flicked to the weapons.
'Don't even think about it,' Tate said. 'Just answer questions.'
Sweat broke out on the plump face. 'Yes.'
'Good. The radio communicates with the house in Little Lloyd Street, right?'
'Yes, the houses. That is . . .'
'Two houses?'
'Yes. There's a door that goes through inside.'
'Top or bottom floor?'
'Both.'
'Is the layout the same in the two places?'
'I . . . identical.'
'Radio in both houses?'
A nod.
'You're doing fine. What's your name?'
'P . . . Porter, Charlie Porter.'
'Okay, Charlie. You're what, Federal police?'
'CCA. Don't kill me.'
'I'll try not to. How many people in the houses?'
Porter's terror brought the words out in a rush. 'They're all in the one house. Number 4. There's the two women and one man . . .' He panicked, reconsidering. What did you call the poofter? Don't know. 'I think that's right.'
'Dunlop. He there?'
Porter was anxious to please. The small, death-dealing hole at the end of the rifle didn't waver a millimetre. 'I don't know. Maybe. I'm not sure, really. I can't tell you. Please . . .'
'It's okay, Charlie. Keep calm. Everything's going to be all right. Suppose you wanted to go into the other house. Number 6, would that be?'
Porter nodded. His knees trembled. His legs didn't want to support his heavy body a second longer.
'Suppose you wanted to go into Number 6, what would you do?'
'I . . . I'd call up.'
'And what would you say?'
'Porter. Coming in to Number 6.'
'Do it.'
'I . . . I can't. I'm too scared.'
Tate stepped forward and rammed the muzzle of the rifle into the soft spread of Porter's gut. Porter bent over, expelling air, and Tate hammered the metal stock of the rifle into his ear. The flesh pulped and leaked blood. Porter whimpered. Tate used the rifle to prop him upright. 'Tell you what, Charlie. Let's go and get the coffee your mate was making. Then you can decide what scares you most—doing what I say, or not doing it.'
They went to the tiny kitchen. The electric kettle was the kind that switches itself off after it has boiled. Tendrils of steam rose from its spout. Tate stood in the doorway and gave Porter instructions. The fat man obeyed them, walking around his colleague's body as he clumsily made the coffee.
'I'll take mine black,' Tate said. 'You have what you please.'
Back in the other room, Tate directed Porter to sit down and drink his coffee. He took his own standing up by the window. After he had finished he wiped the mug clean with the tail of his shirt.
'Feeling better, Charlie?'
Porter nodded. 'Can I have a cigarette?'
'After we finish. Where's the keys to the house?'
Porter reached into the pocket of his suit jacket hanging on the chair. He froze when he realised what he'd done. Tate's expression didn't change. He motion
ed for Porter to continue. Out came a leather folder with keys attached. He slid it across the table towards Tate with, as a small show of defiance, a packet of filter cigarettes. Tate examined the folder briefly, noting with satisfaction the car keys. 'Right. You just call in a normal voice and say what you have to. We'll do a dry run. Go.'
Porter cleared his throat and said, 'This is Porter. Coming in to Number s . . . six.'
Tate nodded. 'Not bad. Bit hesitant on the number. Try to make that a bit smoother. Look, I'll put the gun down. That better?'
Porter picked up the radio handset and activated the channel. There was a crackle, then he spoke, 'This is Porter. Coming in to Number 6.'
Tate had moved behind Porter and slipped the knife from its sheath. 'That was great, Charlie,' he said.
Porter's head came up and turned. Tate grabbed a fistful of hair with his left hand, jerked up and back and drew the knife hard across the taut, straining throat. He avoided the blood that jetted out, splashing the table then flowing freely, turning Porter's blue shirt a deep purple. There was a gurgling sound as Porter died. Tate released the hair and wiped the knife on Porter's sleeve. Unhurriedly, Tate returned the knife to its sheath and picked up the rifle. He went out of the room and retrieved the two shell casings from the floor outside the kitchen. Then he went downstairs.
He took off the balaclava, put it and the rifle in his bag and placed it beside him on the front seat of the Datsun. When the engine was running smoothly, he engaged reverse and eased the car back. The rear wheels bumped over the man lying on the oil-stained concrete floor. He drove slowly forward and allowed the wheels to bump again in the same way. He drove out of the workshop and pulled into the kerb, leaving the motor running. He slammed down the roller door and drove away, signalling as he pulled out into the light traffic.
22
Ava took a heavy gold ballpoint pen—a make-the-peace gift from Vance—from her bag and jotted on the form guide. Dunlop and Ann Torrielli regarded each other uneasily. Roy was humming in the bathroom. Dunlop tried to catch the tune and decided it was 'Begin the Beguine', one of his mother's favourites. He tried to remember who the singer had been on the old LP record.
'Porter's taking his time,' Ann said.
Dunlop looked at his watch. 'Probably being careful. It's raining again.'
They heard the sound of the key in the front door of the other house.
'There he is,' Dunlop said. 'He can stay here. I'll go and get in touch with Peters.'
Tate left the car at the posts that blocked off Little Lloyd Street. He walked quickly to the door of Number 6 and let himself in. He unzipped his bag, put on the hood and assembled the rifle. He looked around the room, familiarising himself with the layout, and opened the door in the party wall. The rifle was set for automatic fire. Tate went through the gap into the other house. He was not expecting the slight difference in floor levels and he missed his step.
Dunlop's hand was moving towards his pistol almost before Tate appeared. Something—the time lapse after the sound of the key in the front door, the manner of opening the adjoining door—had warned him, but he was too late. Tate, momentarily off-balance but recovering fast, saw the movement and fired. Three shots in the short burst flew wild as he swung the rifle towards the target. The fourth hit Dunlop high and threw him back.
Ann and Ava screamed simultaneously. Ava stood up to her full height, colour draining from her face. Ann dived for the stairs, clawing at the clasp on her bag.
Dunlop's collapse had set the tall coat stand teetering. It fell forward and Tate had to step aside and lift the rifle. He lowered it, probing for a clear shot at Dunlop who was half-obscured by the fallen stand. Ava swore and threw her gold pen. It missed but distracted Tate when it hit the wall behind him. The woman, he thought. Kill the woman first! He heard another sound, behind him this time, and pivoted in its direction.
Roy Waterford stepped from the bathroom. Tate hesitated fractionally as he saw the mirror image — ruffled blouse, velvet slacks, the bold red mouth . . .
Waterford fired two bullets into Tate's chest.
Tate's arms jerked up as he was slammed back against the wall and the rifle flew across the room. He slid down; his knee twisted awkwardly and the tendons and ligaments tore as he fell. He writhed on the carpet.
Waterford lowered his pistol. 'Ann, Ava. You all right?'
'Luke's hit,' Ann said. She had her gun out now. She dropped it on the stair as she scrambled up and moved towards Dunlop.
'Ava, call an ambulance,' Waterford snapped.
Ava was rigid with shock. Waterford bellowed her name and she reached slowly for the phone.
'Hurry, Ava, hurry,' Ann said.
Waterford crouched beside Ann, who was checking Dunlop's pulse. The top half of his body was propped against the base of the coat stand and he was trying to lever himself up with his undamaged arm. 'Stay there, Luke,' Waterford said. 'Don't move.'
'He's bleeding badly,' Ann said.
Ava spoke urgently into the phone.
Dunlop's voice was a harsh whisper. 'Is he dead?'
Tate's legs were twitching; his boots scraped the floor.
'No,' Waterford said.
'Ask him about Rankin,' Dunlop said.
'For God's sake, Luke,' Ann said.
'Ask him!'
Waterford's make-up was sweat-smeared and his wig had come adrift. He took it off as he bent down close to Tate. Tate stared up at the outlandish face. His vision was clouding and he could feel his life ending as the blood rose in his punctured lungs. He had seen it too often to be mistaken. It struck him as funny to be finished off by a clown like this. His thin, bloodless lips, visible through the hole in the black hood, curved into a smile.
Waterford also knew the signs. 'You're dying,' he said. 'Did you kill David Rankin?'
Tate's nod was barely perceptible.
'Who for? Who hired you?'
Tate could see nothing now except the dark red lips. He could smell perfume through the acrid stink of the cordite and there was a washing sound in his ears, like a river rushing over rocks. There was a weight on his chest. Getting heavier, pressing down.
Waterford put the question again but Tate could only hear the river and the mouth was a quickly receding red dot. He sucked in a tiny breath. 'You'll never know . . . faggot.'
He gave a series of small grunts and died.
Waterford turned to look at Dunlop, whose eyes were wide and questioning in his livid face. He shook his head and Dunlop sighed.
'Where's that fucking ambulance?' Ann said.
Ava crossed the room and stood over Tate's body. 'I want to see his face.'
Waterford lifted the head and peeled back the balaclava. Ava stared at the face. 'That's him,' she said. She laughed nervously. 'He looks even more like the drawing dead than he did alive.'
Waterford folded the mask and placed it across the face. He patted the pockets of Tate's coat and felt the outline of the .22 pistol. He drew it out and showed it to Dunlop. In the other pocket he found the syringes and insulin.
An ambulance siren wailed and the quiet little street was suddenly filled with movement and sound.
23
Tate's bullet had hit the upper part of Dunlop's left arm, broken the bone and been deflected to exit below his shoulder blade. The damage was serious but repairable. On its path, however, the bullet had taken fibres from Dunlop's clothing into the wound and an infection had been established, causing him to run a high fever. He had reacted badly to an antibiotic and as a consequence was seriously ill for ten days. He spent much of this time in disturbed sleep, fending off enemies disguised as uniformed police officers or wearing golfing clothes or dressed as transvestite bikies with beards, lace underwear and spike-heeled boots.
When the fever passed he was weak, disoriented and lacking in concentration with callers. Burton, from Canberra, visited him but Dunlop contributed little. Burton left shaking his head. Later, Dunlop recalled almost nothing of what had been s
aid. He asked to see Ava but was told that she was in another hospital. Dunlop fell into a depression and had no appetite.
'Luke, what's wrong with you? You have to eat.'
Ann Torrielli, in white shirt, blue skirt and blazer, her tan considerably faded, was sitting beside him. Dunlop stared at her. 'Ann. Why didn't you come before?'
'We're getting worried about you. I've come twice before. The first time you called me Katarina. The second time I was Ava.'
Dunlop's brain was clear and functioning after what seemed to him like a long journey through a mental fog. He reached out with his left hand and gasped as the pain hit him. Ann's warm hand wrapped around his wrist as she eased his arm back. 'Take it easy, sport. That wing's buggered for a while.'
The pain receded. Dunlop smiled. 'Ann, I'm sorry. I've been off the air. What the hell's been happening?'
'Starting where?'
'He was the man?'
Ann nodded. 'They found his Subaru and then his flat. Guns, safety deposit box key, money—the lot. He was a real professional.'
'What about Porter and the others?'
'He killed them all, Luke.'
'Jesus. Ava?'
'She went into RPA for a bit but there's nothing they can do. Well, there is, but Ava's not interested.'
'What d'you mean?'
'I've got to go, Luke. Be back tomorrow. I'll bring Roy with me. Can I get you anything?'
Dunlop shook his head. Ann kissed him and left the private room. Dunlop tried to watch television but could not concentrate on the plots of the narrative programs. He channel-hopped among documentaries and current affairs shows before turning the set off. When his next meal came he felt hungry and ate it all. The nurse looked approving. An hour later, Dunlop pressed his buzzer.
'I've got to go to the toilet,' he said.
The nurse beamed as she approached the bed. 'Thought you might. Upsadaisy!'
Dunlop had his first untroubled sleep. He shaved himself with an electric razor and was alert and attentive when Ann and Roy Waterford arrived the next morning. Ann had brought several thick paperbacks, Waterford a bunch of flowers.
'I might have known,' Dunlop said.