8 Hours to Die

by JR Carroll

  Tim considered the scraps Pat had seen fit to give him. If Delaney was into a major drug scam, he’d have to stump up his share of the capital to pay for the raw product. Presumably the gym guy, this Hassan Khalid character, was the chief organiser, but if Delaney wanted his fair share when it hit the streets, he’d probably have to supply cash, as well the Amsterdam connection. That was all he could think of. Markleigh was probably riding on his coattails, relying on their friendship for a slice of the pie. In prison, friendships are forged like no other. It is a matter of loyalty, and love, to the death.

  ‘When’s the deal set to go down?’ he asked.

  ‘Soon. Weeks, not months. If it’s still on, now that Delaney’s out of the picture.’

  ‘They probably wouldn’t stop now. Even if they thought the net was closing. Greed trumps reason, every time.’

  ‘True.’

  If Delaney—and perhaps unwittingly, Amy—were planning to use Tim’s assets as venture capital, it wouldn’t work, since it took months for the legal wheels to turn when a person dies. Delaney needed it before then. If, indeed, that was his motive. But then, of course, there was the life policy, money that would become available in short order.

  Maybe that was to be Markleigh’s contribution as well—giving him two reasons to kill Tim.

  Yet Tim had trouble getting his mind around the idea that Amy would conspire to murder him so Delaney and Markleigh could split the insurance to finance a drug deal. Surely she wouldn’t sink that low.

  Yet, how frequently had these trysts occurred? More often than Tim cared to know, no doubt. And Delaney, the hungry bastard, would’ve pressed her for details of Tim’s assets, cash in the bank, investments, what they could expect to receive after he was gone. When they were between the sheets, she might’ve told him about the insurance policy.

  Maybe he was using her to get his hands on the pot of gold.

  Maybe Amy didn’t know anything about the drug deal. Maybe Delaney conned her with his charm and renowned seductive skills to persuade her to let him invest it in some legitimate ‘business venture’. Since she was so besotted with him, she might’ve been prepared to do just that. People did strange and stupid things under the influence of love—or what they thought was love.

  Delaney was using her—of that Tim was sure.

  It was a common phenomenon among women who fell for scum like Delaney. They were exploited, squeezed dry and then spat out when they had nothing left to give.

  The more he thought about it, the more he inclined to the charitable view, for Amy’s sake. But perhaps he, too, was guilty of the same stupidity.

  ‘I can understand Dale Markleigh wanting to kill me,’ he said. ‘At least he has a reason. Was he part of this syndicate?’

  Pat shrugged. ‘Could’ve been. He was really on Jimmy’s radar, though, not mine.’

  ‘Maybe they knew each other in jail. Maybe they became mates. You know, brothers, to the bitter end. They’d be in it together, right?’

  ‘Can’t say,’ Pat said.

  ‘You know, he always maintained his innocence over the Bridges murder.’

  Pat smiled. ‘So would I, in his position.’

  ‘There are no guilty men in prison, are there?’

  ‘Not a one. All hard done by.’

  Tim sighed and sat back in his chair. Pat looked at him, giving nothing away. But Tim now believed that, between the lines, Pat was telling him that Markleigh and Delaney were both part of this syndicate that was the centre of police attention. The Feds had a hard-on for Markleigh; Tim knew that much. They hated it when one of their own signed up with the other side. They would have him under surveillance 24/7, hoping he’d do something wrong.

  ‘He’s my nemesis,’ Tim said.

  Pat nodded. ‘He’s a good hater.’

  ‘I think I should pay him a visit. Clear the air with him.’

  ‘Might be worth a try. But I doubt years in the slot have softened him any.’

  ‘Quite the reverse.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Pat said. He drained his cup. The meeting seemed over.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have an address,’ Tim said. ‘For Markleigh.’

  Pat thought about it. ‘Sorry, mate. No can do.’

  ‘Worth a try.’ He was already wondering how he could find it out for himself.

  Tim got up to pay at the counter. The café was mighty busy now—lots of young mothers and babies in strollers. It took some time to settle up. When he returned, Pat was already standing. They went outside. Tim put on his coat, and they shook hands.

  ‘Back to work?’ Tim said.

  ‘Afraid so. You?’

  ‘No. I’m not up to it at the moment. I’ve taken a month’s leave.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Pat said. ‘All the best, mate. Hope Amy’s out of there soon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He stood there, watching Pat get into his car. There goes one tight-arsed son of a bitch.

  When he reached his own car—a rented Audi—he fished in his jacket pocket for the keys. There was also a small piece of paper, folded into quarters. Puzzled, Tim opened it up.

  On it was an address.

  Fine. The time had come. But first, Tim needed to visit a certain acquaintance, a former client whom Tim had successfully represented on an attempted murder charge.

  48

  Friday, 3.15 pm

  The Audi was a smooth ride. On the highway it was soundless; the interior as comfortable as one could wish for. Tim thought he might buy one. He’d have no further use for a four-wheel drive.

  He was on his way to Sydney and a face-off with Dale Markleigh. The face-off that could be delayed no longer.

  When his father had sent him to boxing classes after he’d been beaten up at school, he might’ve had this exact occasion in mind—a final test he had to pass, or die trying.

  World’s full of Clive Danes. Wasn’t that the truth.

  His father knew a lot more than Tim realised at the time.

  *

  Tim found it hard to understand how he’d been such good mates with Markleigh. But things were different back then, when they were both plainclothes cops in the eighties.

  It was a time when Roger Rogerson and Neddy Smith ruled the streets; when the brass didn’t care what you did as long as you got results. It was a time of trade-offs and deals, when police turned a blind eye to offences committed by certain criminals in exchange for information about others in whom they were more interested. It was common practice, and Tim was part of it. Markleigh, however, was steeped in the culture, as far as he could be. He wore expensive suits, ate at the best restaurants, drove a brand-new Ford Fairlane and had recently built a beach house on the Central Coast—all on a senior detective’s pay.

  Tim and other members of the armed hold-up squad sometimes ate at the Coachman, a restaurant in Surry Hills that was also a watering hole for notorious criminals. On one occasion in 1991, Tim was having lunch and a few beers with Markleigh and another cop when a well-known enforcer and close associate of a Kings Cross crime boss came in and sat at their table, as if he was expected. After a short conversation with Markleigh he produced an envelope from inside his tracksuit top and put it on the table.

  ‘What’s that?’ Markleigh said, forking food into his mouth.

  ‘Christmas present,’ the thug answered. Tim had never met this guy before, but knew him by reputation. He had a shaved head and the thickest neck Tim had ever seen. Few people were feared more in the Sydney scene.

  ‘But it’s only August.’

  ‘Christmas comes early this year,’ the thug said. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ Markleigh said, smiling. ‘But I don’t have anything for you, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You will have,’ the thug said. The muscles in his neck leaped out each time he spoke.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘There’s a certain grub, an informant of yours, who’s been called to give evidence at ICAC. He’s going
to name a few names, mine included, along with others, regarding some unsolved homicides and few other outstanding matters. If he goes through with it, it will get ugly. He’s got a big mouth, this guy.’

  Markleigh nodded. The grub in question was Edward Baxter, a longstanding snitch of Markleigh’s.

  ICAC—the Independent Commission Against Corruption—was starting to bite. Those who saw the writing on the wall were cutting deals, running for cover and turning state’s evidence in exchange for immunity from prosecution.

  It was a new decade, and the landscape was changing. The good days were coming to an end. A lot of cops, Markleigh included, were in the gun.

  Now he had to decide where he stood. What the thug was telling him was that a death sentence had been handed out to Edward Baxter, and that Markleigh should do his best to hose down any investigation into his unfortunate demise.

  Markleigh knew a lot of homicide cops. He used to be one himself. Many of them were tarred with the same brush as Markleigh, but a good few were not.

  Now he had to decide whether to pocket the envelope, seal Baxter’s fate, or look after his snitch, do something to save his miserable hide.

  He looked inside the envelope, raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I’ll need more than this,’ he told the thug. ‘Some of those homicide dicks have got deep pockets and healthy appetites. And some of them actually think their job is to solve crimes instead of covering them up.’

  The thug laughed. He stood up. ‘There’ll be plenty more, don’t worry. This is just a down payment. Are we sweet, then?’

  Tim watched Markleigh. For a moment he hesitated. Then he nodded.

  Decision was made: Baxter was expendable.

  Not long afterwards, the trussed-up body of Edward Baxter was found floating in Lake Macquarie. There didn’t seem to be any leads. Baxter was a lifelong drug user, petty criminal and police informer. He had a lot of enemies, and there was no obvious suspect. Detectives urged anyone with information to come forward.

  The murder was never solved.

  Tim did not share in the spoils. Nor did he say one word about any of it.

  That was eight years before freelance hitman Don Bridges met a similar fate, although his body was never found.

  *

  Tim was not scared of coming face-to-face with Markleigh. Far from it; he was relishing the prospect. He was, however, nervous, apprehensive—the way he’d felt before an important law exam.

  The way he should feel.

  Markleigh was a formidable foe. He was a violent man with an explosive temper, who harboured deep, abiding resentments that had only grown stronger and more toxic with the years, especially those spent in solitary.

  Tim would be a fool to take him lightly.

  Being an officer of the court, Tim was well versed in the parole system. It was a privilege, by no means a right, and certain strict conditions were attached.

  Without knowing the precise details in Markleigh’s case, he figured the same template applied to all parolees, with variations here and there. He would have to report to his parole officer once or twice a week. He would have to look for gainful employment. He would have to abstain from all proscribed or controlled substances. He could not travel interstate or overseas without permission. He could not associate with criminals, possess firearms or engage in any unlawful activity. And so on.

  Any infraction, he’d be straight back inside.

  Far as Tim could judge, Markleigh had shrugged off most of those. Being an arrogant, self-righteous son of a bitch, he would not allow himself to be constrained by rules. Rules were for other people. And he was willing to bet Markleigh had armed himself. That would’ve been one of his first acts.

  The last thing Tim did before shutting the front door that afternoon was to remove his pistol from its safe, load it with a full clip, and slip the weapon into his overcoat pocket.

  Rain, which had threatened all morning, was coming down in earnest now. There’d been a lot of rain lately. An intense low-pressure system had brought heavy deluges to the entire eastern seaboard, with floods in some areas. One or two coastal towns had been evacuated. Roads had been cut. Low-lying farms had become lakes. People were marooned on rooftops. It was only going to become worse: that low-pressure system wasn’t budging.

  But Tim wasn’t concerned about the weather. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only.

  He realised it was four weeks to the day, to the hour, since he and Amy had made their journey to Black Pig Bend. That had to mean something. But what, exactly, he couldn’t say.

  By 5pm it was almost dark. Sydney was still two and a half hours away. The rain had eased for the moment.

  His destination was Ashcroft, a southwest suburb not far from Liverpool. Tim didn’t know the area at all. From the information on the scrap of paper Pat had slipped into his pocket, Tim knew that Markleigh was living in a block of flats. That might be a complication, all those witnesses, cheek-by-jowl. But the rain would provide some cover.

  Markleigh wouldn’t have had any say in his accommodation, which had been arranged by the Parole Board. The board had cheap lodgings on its books for this purpose, to assist prisoners reentering society. Neighbours would have no idea that the quiet man living next door was a murderer, rapist, or child abuser.

  Often these lodgings were in outer suburbs, well away from the hot centre of criminal activity. But not in this case. Ashcroft was rife with criminal activity. Not that Dale Markleigh would care about that. By the time Tim reached his destination, darkness had closed in. Rain was steady, insistent; the wind, while not gale force, was enough to blow branches from trees and send foliage skittering across the road.

  The building was a standard Housing Commission red-brick three-storey job. At its rear was a large factory. Just across the street was a small park. It appeared to be deserted. That was a bonus. Tim circled the block, watching for citizens, but there were none. Not surprising in this weather.

  He parked a good distance away. After sitting in the car for a few minutes, he got out. He was wearing a navy raincoat. He put on a black fedora he was fond of wearing, made sure the coat was buttoned up, then turned up his collar and walked quickly to the flats.

  Markleigh’s flat was number eleven, which put it on the top floor. Tim climbed the stairs, rain buffeting his face and nearly blowing his hat off. He kept a hand on it as he approached Markleigh’s door.

  The blind was drawn, but he could see there was a light on inside. He could also hear voices. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Markleigh might not be alone. But he soon realised it was the TV.

  He gave three light taps on the door, and waited.

  After a few seconds, he knocked again. Then he heard the volume on the TV go down.

  The door opened. He found himself staring into the face of Dale Markleigh. Even though he’d prepared himself for this moment, it still gave him a shock.

  If he’d seen Markleigh in the street, he would’ve had to look twice. This was not the same man he once knew. His dark hair was noticeably thinner, and his head seemed to have grown in size. The bones of his forehead and cheeks were much more prominent than Tim remembered and even in the poor light his dead, deep-set eyes betrayed his long years in stir.

  Markleigh fixed Tim with his dead stare for a long moment. There was no flicker of recognition, nor any kind of reaction at all.

  ‘Thought you’d show up,’ he said. ‘Took your time.’

  ‘Had a bit on,’ Tim said.

  ‘So I heard.’

  Markleigh retreated into the room, leaving the door ajar. That seemed to be his way of inviting Tim to come in.

  Tim stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

  49

  There was a combined lounge/dining area on the right: a small dining table and four chairs, two cheap lounge chairs and a coffee table. The TV was against the right-hand wall. It was about twenty years old, and the reception was not great. The Mentalist was on. To the left, there wa
s a small kitchen and a counter.

  At the back, a darkened hallway led to the bedroom, or bedrooms.

  The flat was spare, characterless and in an ordinary state of repair: cracks in the walls and ceiling, damp patches of paintwork, damaged and missing tiles on the counter.

  ‘Not up to your usual standard, I’m afraid,’ Markleigh said.

  He was standing next to the coffee table, one hand on his hip, the other holding a glass of Scotch. A half-empty bottle of Bell’s was on the table. Tim wondered if Markleigh was drunk. That was something else he hadn’t counted on. You can’t reason with a drunk—especially not a violent drunk.

  For a middle-aged man pushing fifty, Markleigh had an imposing physique—a testament, no doubt, to many hours spent lifting weights in the prison gym. He was a fearsome-looking man beforehand, and now he was even more so, packed everywhere with hard muscle. The veins in his neck were thick and frightening. He had on a red, sleeveless sweat top and a pair of cargo shorts. Nothing on his feet.

  No prison tatts that Tim could see.

  He stood there, legs apart, hand on hip, rocking slightly on his heels: the classic don’t-fuck-with-me prison stance. From his body language, the way he held himself, his stare, Tim could see he was totally institutionalised. He was locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll.

  ‘Going to offer me a drink?’ Tim said. He was still standing at the door, hands in his coat pockets, dripping water onto the floor.

  Markleigh didn’t answer. He sipped from his glass, first swirling the contents, and set it down on the coffee table. Then he pulled his eyes off Tim long enough to fetch a glass from a kitchen cupboard. He poured a couple of fingers, walked right up to Tim, paused for a second, then handed him the drink.

  Tim thought he was going to throw it in his face. That would be true to form.

  Markleigh stood there, too close for comfort, as Tim brought the glass to his lips. Tim could smell his BO. He could also see that Markleigh was wearing earrings. That would never have happened in the old days: only women and queers wore earrings back then.