8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

  Even thinking that made Tim feel sick.

  That was before he watched the DVD.

  Tim had no idea what to expect when he slid it into the machine. Like the CD, it was unlabelled.

  What he saw was reasonably high-quality footage of a covert surveillance. The opening sequence showed the exterior of a pub, with people occasionally entering and leaving. Tim thought he recognised it: the Golden Chariot, a popular watering hole on the outskirts of Canberra. The POV was the opposite side of the street, probably a van or car.

  A police job.

  Tim watched closely, waiting for something—or someone—of interest to show up.

  He only had to wait three minutes before a man approached the pub, looked around and checked his watch. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and sunglasses.

  Tim felt a stab of recognition. Dale Markleigh.

  Standing on the footpath, he lit up a cigarette and checked out his surroundings. For a moment he seemed to be looking directly at the camera, before shifting his gaze elsewhere. He took several puffs of the cigarette then tossed it away and entered the pub.

  There was a jump-cut at that point. Next frame was inside the pub, a lounge area with poker machines lining the walls, punters putting their money in. The concealed camera was shooting upwards, probably from under a table, Tim thought. It panned around the room for a few moments before settling on two men at a table with middies in front of them.

  Tim saw that one of them was Dale Markleigh. The second man was Lance Delaney. The date/time code said June 27, 2012, PM12:46:39. Wednesday: two days before the attack; the day after the wiretapped phone conversation between the two men plotting Tim’s death.

  He leaned forward in his chair, watching intently. Here are two men, he thinks, having a lunchtime beer and shooting the breeze. Except they’re not.

  They had serious expressions on their faces. Markleigh, in particular, seemed intent on delivering a message by stabbing his finger on the table. Delaney nodded and drank his beer. Then he spoke. Markleigh shook his head, then nodded.

  They were having a discussion—which was more of a disagreement—going by the body language. They didn’t appear to be on the same page. There was no levity; no hint of laughter or even a smile, from either of them.

  Half an hour elapsed: another round of beers and further discussion.

  By that time they seemed to have reached an accord, if the nods were anything to go by. Then Markleigh got up and went out of shot, possibly to the men’s room.

  While he was away, Delaney checked his watch. Then he pulled out a mobile phone and made a call.

  By the time Markleigh returned, about three minutes later, Delaney had finished the call and put the phone away.

  They had another round of beers and chatted away. The tension seemed to have gone; they were just enjoying a drink now.

  At 1.53pm they both got up and left. The concealed camera followed them towards the exit.

  The next frame was back out in the street, watching them from the same POV as previously, opposite the pub. Tim figures they used two cameras: one fixed in the vehicle and a roving camera, possibly even a mobile phone, to do the indoor footage. So there were at least two people conducting the surveillance.

  Outside the pub, Markleigh and Delaney chatted briefly, then shook hands and went their separate ways, to left and right of shot respectively.

  Another jump cut.

  This time it’s a different location, a street probably not far from the pub. Lance Delaney got into a car, a Ford Falcon, and drove away. Clearly in a hurry. It seemed the watchers decided to go with Delaney rather than Markleigh, or perhaps another unit was tracking him.

  Next thing Tim saw, following another jump cut, was Delaney’s Falcon pull up outside the Best Western motel, in the Canberra suburb of Kingston. The time was 2.07pm. Delaney just sat in the car, apparently waiting. Nothing happened for twelve minutes, and then, at two nineteen, a second car, a Honda Civic, drew up behind the Falcon.

  Tim really starts to take notice.

  A woman emerged from the Honda. She was wearing a black tracksuit and grey hoodie, with a dark baseball cap on beneath the hoodie. She was also wearing dark sunglasses, and carrying a handbag.

  Without losing any time she climbed into the Falcon alongside Delaney. They kissed and cuddled before Delaney drove into the motel. When he reached reception he stopped, got out and went through the door. The woman stayed in the car.

  Three minutes later, Delaney rejoined her, and the car moved off, and out of shot.

  After yet another jump cut, the Falcon reappeared at reception, on its way out. Time: 4.07pm. Delaney went inside and was back within a minute.

  The Falcon stopped outside the motel.

  More kissing and cuddling, and then the woman got out, carrying her handbag, and looked up and down the street. She was wearing the baseball cap with her hair tucked up inside it. She drew the hoodie over her head and then waved goodbye to Delaney. The Falcon drove off, out of shot. The woman got into her Honda, parked where she left it nearly two hours earlier.

  The Honda drove out of shot.

  End of DVD.

  He pressed eject. On came the rugby.

  46

  Tim stared at the screen for a long time. The facts were incontestable, yet he could not accept them. But the more he thought about it, the more he was forced to believe the ugly, unpalatable truth.

  He knew that motel quite well, had been there often—with Amy. And he had no trouble recognising the woman who had met Delaney there. He knew that black tracksuit with the white vertical stripes on the pants, and the grey hoodie. He also knew that Honda Civic.

  There was no doubt it was Amy.

  He remembered that Wednesday afternoon, when he got home. She was still wearing that exact same outfit, but without the baseball cap.

  She’d spent the afternoon screwing Lance Delaney at the Best Western.

  Judging from the DVD, she was in love with this—this psychopath. How could it be?

  But there was more than that. The conversation recorded between the man he believed to be Delaney and the leader of the hit team occurred on the Tuesday. The following day, Delaney met with Dale Markleigh in a pub. Their conversation was serious, sometimes fractious, as if they were in disagreement.

  Tim theorised that, while in prison, the two men conspired to murder Tim. Markleigh wouldn’t do it himself, since he was on parole, with strict conditions, and couldn’t possibly risk a trip to the valley, so he persuaded Delaney to do it for him. That made sense, especially as Delaney was released some months ahead of Markleigh, and could lay the groundwork.

  That groundwork being Amy.

  If she’d met him once at that motel, what was to say she hadn’t met him many times? From his viewing of the footage, Tim judged it to be a standing arrangement. She’d park outside, jump in his car, and together they’d go in. Her speed and eagerness indicated they’d followed the same procedure before. She had no trouble recognising his car, for instance. It definitely wasn’t a one-off.

  Now, with Amy’s infidelity beyond dispute, he had to ask himself the truly hard questions.

  He had wondered how the killers knew Tim would be at the house that Friday night. They didn’t turn up on the off chance. They had information. The only person who could possibly have provided it was Amy.

  Casting his mind back, he remembered that originally she wasn’t planning to go with him, but then changed her mind—on the Thursday, in fact. The day after her motel tryst with Delaney.

  Tim speculated that, at the motel, the two lovers firmed up the arrangements for Tim to be disposed of. Maybe Delaney persuaded her to go, since, if she didn’t, she would automatically become a murder suspect. But if she were present during the attack, that would be less likely, especially if she was beaten and raped and generally traumatised. That might get her off the hook.

  But it seemed a stretch that she would allow herself to be gang raped by a bunch of ro
ughnecks. Surely she didn’t hate Tim that much?

  Then Tim wondered why Delaney didn’t do the job himself, instead of sub-contracting to a crew of thugs. Perhaps, like Markleigh, he didn’t wish to risk being placed at the scene, in case a witness turned up. Delaney had a phobia about imprisonment. He’d be desperate not to go back.

  But if so, why did he show up anyway?

  There were a number of possible explanations. One, he didn’t trust the bikers to do the job properly, and just couldn’t stay away. Or two—and this option was the one Tim favoured—his plan was always to wipe out the killers, through whom he could be incriminated. He didn’t want any loose ends.

  But then, maybe Tim was giving Delaney too much credit. Maybe he just acted on impulse, driven by his fear of going back inside if the hit team fucked up—as they did—or by his need to see that Amy was OK.

  That sounded right.

  His thoughts shifted back to Amy. Why not just walk away, divorce him? Can she hate me that much? Tim estimated his total worth to be about five million dollars: property, shares, cash in the bank. Amy would be entitled to half of that. But she obviously wanted the whole nut, to live the life of luxury with Lance fucking Delaney, who was now dead. And a good job, too.

  Another relevant factor: Tim had a life insurance policy for seven hundred and fifty thousand, with Amy the sole beneficiary. Ironically, he’d set that up to give her a cushion in case something bad should happen to him. This chain of events was not exactly what he had in mind.

  Six million sounded a lot better than two and a half.

  And yet … conspiracy to murder is always easier than the actual execution. In most cases, Tim knew from experience, prearranged murders did not go according to plan. Usually because the perpetrators are anything but mental giants, but also because of unforeseen circumstances.

  He cast his mind back to the moment when Delaney burst into the room, hell-bent on shooting Tim. Amy had interposed herself between them and yelled: ‘Lance, don’t.’

  To Tim’s ear, it sounded as if there had been an agreement between them, but at the last minute Amy just couldn’t go through with it. She’d reneged on the deal. Instead, she had taken a bullet for Tim.

  If his reading was correct, what had induced her to change her mind?

  Perhaps … The horror and trauma of their experiences that night were much more devastating than she had anticipated. It was one thing to plan someone’s murder in a motel bed, high on sex, but when it comes down to actually carrying it out, well, that’s something else. You have to dig deep to find that vicious and treacherous side of yourself to see it through, when the bullets are real and the blood is actually flowing.

  Amy didn’t have what it took.

  Tim wondered if he could ever forgive her. It hardly seemed possible, not now. Not yet. But did he want her brought to justice, to spend the rest of her best years in prison, her life destroyed? That was what she deserved.

  And yet …

  There was no doubt that her last action had saved Tim, even before Malcolm had miraculously appeared.

  Didn’t that self-sacrificial deed go some way towards salvaging what remained of her soul?

  Possibly. Tim was finding that there were no easy answers. The greatest, the noblest, demonstration of power, so it is said, was to show mercy. Tim wasn’t feeling particularly noble, or merciful. He was feeling shocked, angry, betrayed, and deeply hurt.

  All the same, he wasn’t sure if he wanted Amy punished any further than she already had been.

  As a criminal defence lawyer, Tim was reasonably sure that no jury would convict Amy of conspiracy to murder. To begin with, her co-conspirator was dead; no witnesses, to his knowledge, knew of any such conspiracy. While it might be suspected, proving it beyond reasonable doubt, without exposing the police surveillance on Markleigh and Jimmy’s leaking of the material, was another matter. Besides, the footage showing her at the motel with Delaney was not evidence that she planned to have Tim murdered. It was evidence of infidelity, nothing more.

  A prosecution case against her was bound to fail—unless she confessed. But why would she?

  No. The would-be murderers were Markleigh, Delaney, and the three bikers. Of those, only Markleigh survived. Only he could possibly prove Amy’s involvement. And if he were cornered, he might try to do just that, put it all on her to get himself out of a hole.

  Sooner or later, all roads led back to Dale Markleigh, the dark avenging angel.

  Tim could have no peace of mind while Markleigh remained on the planet.

  47

  Tim was driven twice to the crime scene. It was a depressing journey. Police had questioned him at great length, especially about his part in the Canadian’s death. Even though the dead man was one of the invaders and a member of a notorious gang, a homicide had been committed, righteous or not, and due process had to be satisfied.

  Tim understood that. He didn’t believe he would be facing any charges, but with their relentless interrogation, the cops were letting him know he wouldn’t be getting a free pass. Tim gave them the story straight. It was a hand-to-hand battle, a fight to the death. He was defending his life and property against a band of vicious thugs.

  The cops seemed amazed that he survived—as if that alone were grounds for suspicion. But no one was more amazed than Tim.

  In the aftermath, he’d been unable to sleep—at all. Through the long night he tossed and turned, groaning with stress and anxiety; in the end he got on the Valium. That knocked him out all right, but there was a downside: in the daytime he felt like a walking corpse. In the evenings, after the drug had worn off, there was this tremendous pressure in his head, as if it were being crushed in a vice. There were times when he wanted to scream—did scream.

  In the empty house, no one heard him.

  By this time there were two crime scenes, following the grim discovery of Gus’s body at the back of his store. When the police car carrying Tim arrived there, the cops got out and chatted to other detectives combing through the store for evidence, while Tim sat alone in the back seat. Then it was onwards to Tim’s house—the last place on earth he wanted to see again.

  The whole place was crawling with police, photographers and forensic people, and of course there was a media pack just behind the crime scene tape that encircled the house.

  The Channel 9 chopper was parked on his front yard.

  This was an enormous story, growing bigger by the day as fresh revelations came to light. Tim had even received a call from a well-known true-crime author who wanted to write a book about it. He said it was sure to be a megaseller. Tim told the man to go fuck himself, as politely as he could manage.

  *

  One afternoon, when Tim was doing his round of hospital visiting, he ran into Pat O’Dwyer, who’d come to see how Jimmy was doing. There had been no progress to report, and since he was unconscious at the time, the visit was a short one. The only time that Jimmy had actually been conscious in Tim’s presence was when he’d told him to go to his house to listen to the CD he’d left in a bubble-wrapped bag next to the DVD player—and to look at the DVD that he would find still in the machine.

  Tim was glad to have run into Pat, because he’d intended to set up a meeting with him soon. Now the opportunity had presented itself.

  ‘How about a coffee?’ he said, out on the sunny street.

  ‘I could use one,’ Pat said. They walked on. There was a trendy café down the road. There was no shortage of trendy cafés in Canberra.

  Tim was mindful that he had to frame his questions carefully, so as not to reveal that he’d listened to the CD and read the sheets Pat had clandestinely sent to Jimmy. Far as Pat knew, they’d been destroyed.

  When the cappuccinos had been served, Tim jumped straight in.

  ‘What’s this all about, Pat?’

  Pat gave him a searching look over his coffee cup, as if deciding how much he could reveal.

  ‘I can’t tell you the full story, mate,’ he sa
id. ‘We only found out about it accidentally.’ By ‘we’ he must mean Strike Force Unicorn.

  ‘Was Delaney under surveillance?’ he said.

  Pat nodded. ‘Delaney, along with others. There’s a guy in the gym business, owns a chain of them. Hassan Khalid is his name. We’ve known for some time that he and Delaney were planning to import a large quantity of crystal meth. So—we tapped their phones, and the watchdogs picked up this conversation between Delaney and someone else, an unsub who turned out to be one of the bikers, the leader of Black Mamba. I considered it serious enough to pass on the intel to Jimmy. Anyhow … You know the rest.’ He sipped some coffee. ‘I still can’t believe how you got through that in one piece.’

  ‘That goes twice,’ Tim said. ‘But … I just don’t understand why I’d be a target. I’ve done nothing to Delaney. Never even knew him. Why would he want me dead? And Amy?’

  ‘Can’t say,’ Pat said, after giving the question some thought.

  Cagey bastard; gives nothing away. Did he mean can’t—or won’t?

  ‘I know this is a sensitive area for you,’ Tim said. ‘But I’d just like to have some inkling of an idea.’

  Pat sipped his coffee while he contemplated his response. He would’ve known Tim was going to press him for information. It was a matter of how it would play out; what he was prepared to reveal.

  ‘This syndicate was planning to import some gym gear from Amsterdam, through a Dutch connection Delaney had met in jail. En route to Sydney the ship stops in Pakistan. That’s where the chemicals were to be packed inside the gym equipment before being sent on.’

  ‘OK. But I still don’t see what that has to do with me.’

  ‘Doesn’t have anything to do with you. But that’s what Delaney was into. That’s why we were onto him.’

  This kind of dialogue was in character for Pat. Tim was surprised he’d even sent that information to Jimmy, given his guarded, highly circumspect nature.

  It was warm in the café. Tim took off his R.M. Williams dryskin jacket and hung it on his chair just as a waitress came by. They ordered another round of cappuccinos.