Hard Yards

by J. R. Carroll

  Barrett digested this. ‘Was the door forced?’

  ‘Yes, I believe it was. There’s a lock on it, but one good kick would bust it open. It’s just a cheap padlock.’

  ‘What time do they think it happened?’

  Ray breathed out and produced some cigarettes. Barrett had never noticed him smoke before. ‘Probably about … nine, nine-thirty, something like that.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  Ray lit up and took a deep drag. ‘Well … I actually rang Geoff’s mobile number while the cops were here. One of the homicide detectives answered his phone. I identified myself … and he filled me in.’

  ‘Jesus Christ. That must have rocked you.’

  ‘I’m still rocked. I keep getting the same message in my head: It isn’t real, it isn’t real, it’s all bullshit …’ He took another deep drag and blew out a thick lungful.

  ‘What was Geoff doing, do you know?’

  ‘Remember … remember he said he was going to talk to the restaurant owner ...’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘He decided to go one step further. He … he sat outside the restaurant in his car, hoping Hickey would show. If he did, he planned to follow him, find out where he was holed up. He wasn’t going to do anything – just follow him.’

  ‘And Hickey showed?’

  ‘I guess he must have. We can easily find out by checking with the restaurant.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They smoked, not talking. Eventually Barrett broke the silence. ‘I just can’t believe … Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he tell me what was going on? I could’ve been there. I should’ve been there. The big, stupid …’ He shook his head, lost in pointless speculation: the answers to his questions, even if he could find them, were never going to change anything.

  Ray said, ‘You were a tag team, weren’t you? It wouldn’t be that big a deal for him to do something like that off his own bat.’

  ‘He said he was going to talk to the restaurant owner. That was fair enough. But following Hickey … That’s a different fucking ball game, Ray. Geoff was a very careful man. He was a professional. He would’ve kept me informed at least.’

  ‘But hang on – you were more than a little under the weather, mate. He probably just decided you were better off out of it.’

  ‘I was under the weather. But so was he.’

  ‘Not as much as you were. I couldn’t help noticing at lunch. You were hitting the vodkas, don’t forget.’

  ‘Still. He should have called me.’

  Another silence, and more smoking. Then Ray said, ‘Wait a minute. We’re forgetting something. Didn’t you tell me your phone was dead? This morning, when you were getting Geoff’s from his car?’

  ‘Yeah. It was dead.’

  ‘Did Geoff know?’

  ‘Of course he did. I had to use his to make a call. But … I replaced the battery before we met for lunch.’

  ‘Did you tell Geoff that?’

  ‘No. I didn’t mention anything about it.’

  ‘So … he would have assumed your phone was still out of commission. That might explain why he didn’t try to call you. In his mind there was no way he could contact you.’

  Barrett thought about it. ‘You’re right. Christ, I should’ve told him. I could’ve called him.’

  ‘Maybe he rang on the landline, and you weren’t home.’

  That was a possibility. There was plenty of time for him to call while Barrett was on his walk, but he’d been too whacked to check for messages later. In any case, it was unlikely Geoff would leave one – he harboured a strong dislike of such machines, and of phones in general. They had that in common.

  ‘Looks like I fucked up in a big way,’ he said in a low, even voice.

  ‘Mate. You’d had a long day. You can’t be on the ball all the fucking time.’

  ‘Soon as you take your eye off the ball … that’s when the shit hits. It’s a law of life. That’s when you’re wide open. He was on deck – I needed to be too.’

  ‘It’s no good punishing yourself, mate. You can’t be held responsible for the actions of a trained psychopath.’

  Barrett smoked through another cigarette. Then he looked at his wristwatch. It was after two. ‘How many people knew about that fax, mate?’

  ‘From the FBI?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The three of us. That’s it. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He went for another cigarette, then changed his mind and put the pack back in his pocket. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing, Ray. I’m going to find that cunt and kill him. Tomorrow. If he’s still in this city, I’ll find him and fix him. He is going to find out what it’s all about. He’s going to come face to face with a brand of shit he never knew in the fucking Marines or the fucking CI-fucking-A. Edward Hickey will never be arrested, and he’ll never see the inside of a court of law, because I am going to remove him from this earth. Wherever he is now, he is a dead man.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you,’ Ray said. ‘And I don’t imagine anyone’s going to stand in your way.’

  28

  For the shank end of that night Barrett lay naked on the white satin sheets of his queen-sized bed – thinking, listening to his breathing, and not moving at all. His arms were extended down his sides, and his legs were slightly parted. They didn’t look or feel like his arms and legs. He might have been a corpse on a slab. He watched his chest rise and fall, again and again. When he grew tired of that, he picked out various items in the room and studied those. All the while he was thinking, about everything and nothing at all: what were the last words Geoff had said to him? For the life of him he couldn’t remember. What was the last thing he had said to Geoff? Same same. What sort of person kills a man then disembowels him? Why is the world such a terrible place? In Nicaragua he removed the heads and hands and even the hearts of his victims and sent them to their families. Christ almighty. In Calgary, they discovered a body with its head and hands removed. And there are numerous unsolved murders in places he is thought to have been.

  When the sun came up and streamed through the window he was still there – unmoving, unfeeling, a corpse on a slab. The phone rang and he ignored it. Five minutes later it trilled again and he still didn’t respond. Finally he turned his head sideways and looked at the bedside clock: ten past seven. He sat up, placing his hands on his thighs and noticing how cold they felt. In time, he swung his legs around and sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands. His head was thick, his eyes stung, he was utterly drained and there was a dry, bitter taste in his mouth and throat. But now at least he had a plan.

  He stood in the shower for fifteen minutes with his face inclined upwards into the torrent of cold water. He kept his mouth open, swallowing copious amounts and, when his mouth filled, letting it spill out and fill again, and so on. At first the cold water had shocked him, as he had meant it to, but now it just ran off his skin with no noticeable discomfort. He turned off the ultra-modern tap, which swung to the left and right like a lever, then stepped out and dripped water all over the tiled floor. Looking down at the large pool forming around his feet, he thought how easily it could be blood. Blood would flow soon – but not his.

  He had three cups of coffee and five cigarettes, then phoned Ray at work. It was now nine. Ray was always there early; Barrett remembered him saying he slept very little these days and invariably hit the office around seven-thirty or so. He answered on the second ring.

  ‘Criminal Intelligence. Inspector Ward speaking.’

  ‘Ray. It’s me.’

  ‘Barrett. How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know … Shithouse.’

  ‘Yeah. I haven’t been asleep at all.’

  ‘Me neither. I feel utterly fucked. I still can’t believe it …’

  ‘Yeah. I know. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? I keep thinking I’ll ring him, and maybe he’ll be there …’

  ‘My head’s aching from thinking so much. But I meant what I said, Ray. I’m
going to find the cunt and kill him. Do you want to help me?’

  ‘… What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Not a lot. I mean, I don’t want you to be there when I do it. I’d like two things: a copy of that FBI photo of Hickey, for one, and … if it’s not too much to ask, would you meet me this afternoon to visit some cop shops? They’re more likely to co-operate if you’re there.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I’m thinking … He’s somewhere around the Redfern–Surry Hills area. People must have seen him walking around. Christ, he attacked those people at the teller machine. He’s not fucking invisible; he’s got a gut and he wears a belly bag and a baseball cap. Maybe local cops have noticed him around the streets.’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a possibility. Don’t worry, mate, I’ll help any way I can. Tell you what. Let’s meet at the Hollywood Hotel around one. I’ve got some business in the Cross, and I’ll see you after that. I’ll be ready for a beer by then, too.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks, Ray.’

  The Hollywood Hotel was just an ordinary, grungy boozer with brownish-yellow paintwork, yellow tiles and old patrons with yellow, vacuous faces that reflected their surroundings. In the background was a radio tuned into the races, but no-one seemed to be listening. A barman was reading the paper when Barrett walked in at quarter to one.

  ‘Anytime you’re ready, mate,’ he said, and the barman looked up.

  He ordered a schooner of Resch’s, drank half of it straight away, then sat down at a table next to the tiled wall. It was a pub in a time warp – as if the past fifty years had gone straight by it. The barman disappeared and Barrett took over the newspaper to find he had actually been reading about the grisly find in Surry Hills. A homicide squad detective sergeant named Willard Armitage was appealing for witnesses to come forward.

  While he was waiting, he smoked and drank and thought first of Geoff, then Bunny. He’d reluctantly told him what had happened – omitting the details – and the sprinter had freaked completely. Barrett hated to be the bearer of such appalling news, but how could he not tell him? It would be in the paper, on TV, and he’d find out one way or another. Now he would have to handle it the best way he could, same as everyone else. But it was tough for the young man, who after all was only here to win a fucking foot race, not to cop shit like this. He said he definitely wouldn’t be budging from Homebush that day; that he had won his first-round heat the night before and would be taking things easy in preparation for the semi-final next night, the Saturday. Barrett found it pretty hard to enthuse, but wished him well anyhow and made him guarantee he wouldn’t be going anywhere without letting Barrett know first.

  Ray came in at one on the dot. He looked as if he had aged ten years overnight. He was wearing his cheap navy suit with the shiny pants and scuffed black shoes that had a sort of European webbing effect. His blue-check shirt had the first two buttons undone and his maroon tie was pulled loose. When Ray sat opposite him, Barrett saw that his eyes were watery, and somehow smaller. From the previous night, Barrett remembered them as cavernous, as if they’d been punched in, and now they seemed to have contracted, as his face grew puffier and more putty-like around them. Clearly he was not a well man.

  ‘Here’s the photo,’ Ray said, passing it across the table. He then lifted his schooner with a trembling hand and brought it to his mottled lips, which were also trembling as they gulped the amber fluid. At last he let out a long sigh.

  ‘Thanks,’ Barrett said. From his pocket he produced the newspaper picture of the teller machine attack, lining it up next to the army mug shot. It was possible, just possible, to identify them both as Edward Hickey. He lit up another smoke. The Stuyvesant pack was on the table, and Ray picked it up.

  ‘Mind if I have one of these?’ he said.

  ‘Go for your life.’

  After he’d lit up Ray said, ‘I hadn’t smoked a cigarette for twenty years up until the other night. Thought I never would again.’

  ‘It’s a good time to take them up,’ Barrett said. He indicated the newspaper article and said, ‘Do you know this homicide cop, Armitage?’

  ‘Slightly,’ Ray said.

  ‘Do you think you could arrange an intro for me? I want to ask him something.’

  ‘No problem. When?’

  ‘Now would be good.’

  Ray dug out his phone and rubbed his head, thinking. Then he punched in some numbers. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Ray Ward here. Willard Armitage, please. No, no, it’s important.’

  He held the phone to his ear, nodding at Barrett. When Armitage came on Ray said, ‘Mate, how are you? Listen, regarding the murder in Surry Hills last night. Friend of mine and of the deceased, name of Barrett Pike, would like to have a word. He’s a private investigator who had been working with the victim.’

  He passed the phone over. After the formalities, Barrett asked if they had any major leads, and Armitage evasively said no, they were keeping an open mind. Jesus Christ. Had they linked Geoff’s murder to the shooting at Wentworth Park? That was a strong possibility they were looking into. Finally Barrett got to the point. Could Armitage tell him the contents of Geoff’s pockets?

  Armitage balked. Why did Barrett want to know that? Barrett explained: he knew Geoff pretty well, they’d been sharing a hotel room. If there was anything missing from his person, Barrett would probably know. Information like that could lead to an important clue, a motive, and maybe even to the killer.

  Armitage bought it.

  Barrett held the phone away from his head, waiting, then in a few seconds was writing on the newspaper. When it was over he said, ‘That all? That’s it?’ Then he thanked Armitage, switched off and handed the piece back to Ray.

  ‘What’ve you got?’ Ray said.

  ‘Two ballpoint pens, one small Quill notepad, one black Goldmark address book, one black leather wallet containing three hundred and twenty dollars, the usual credit and business cards and ATM receipts; six dollars and ninety cents in change, one pair of sunglasses, one parking garage stub, one handkerchief, one packet of Quick-Eze, one Ericsson mobile phone, one Omega chronometer wristwatch, one fully loaded Chief’s Special Smith & Wesson .38 revolver and shoulder holster.’

  Ray waited, then said, ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, mate. I’ll have to chew over it.’ He finished his schooner. ‘Do you want another one or shall we go?’

  ‘No, let’s hit the street. I can’t even get this one down. Things are pretty fucking bad if I’m off the grog.’

  Barrett ripped off the strip of newsprint on which he had written, slipped it into his pocket and followed Ray out. It had started to rain heavily. The gutters were already running a banker.

  ‘Go in mine if you like,’ Ray said. ‘I’ll bring you back here.’

  Barrett preferred to drive himself, but Ray’s unmarked Falcon was right there, and anyhow what difference did it make.

  Redfern was the third cop shop on the list, but only because they’d stopped at two others on the way. When they went in, Ray introduced himself and Barrett to the sergeant, whose nameplate said Dougal Keeffe.

  ‘And how can I help the BCI today?’ Keeffe said.

  ‘Just do one thing for us,’ Ray said. Barrett handed him the two pictures, which he placed on Keeffe’s desk. ‘Identify this person.’

  Keeffe put on spectacles and pored over them. ‘Same guy?’

  ‘We believe so. The mug shot was taken years ago, obviously.’

  Keeffe read the name under the mug shot. ‘Edward Arthur Hickey, US Marine Corps, September 1974. So he’s a Yank.’ He looked at the security camera shot. ‘Wasn’t this the, uh, teller machine attack in town? The pistol-whipping incident?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Ray said.

  ‘And you reckon it’s this guy – the Marine?’

  ‘We have reason to believe the person is living in the inner suburbs, maybe somewhere in this vicinity. And since you have officers on the street all the time it’s possibl
e there’s been a sighting. We badly want to find him, you see. In connection with a lot more than a pistol whipping.’

  ‘Right,’ Keeffe said. He removed his spectacles and stroked his chin, his mind drifting back to Lyle … I knock on his door the other night, and he pulls a fuckin’ gun and bashes me over the face with it. Then a constable came in from the back room waving a sheet of paper. ‘Signature, boss,’ he said. ‘Incident report on the hit-and-run.’

  ‘Constable Cymric,’ Keeffe said. ‘These two gentlemen are from BCI. They’re looking for an American offender who is possibly resident in this area. Look at these pictures, will you?’

  ‘American,’ Cymric said. He picked up and studied the mug shot. ‘Hmm. Bit old, this one.’ Then he looked at the video still.

  ‘That’s the recent teller machine robbery in town,’ Keeffe told him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Cymric said. ‘I’ve seen this … Hang on a minute.’ He was thinking, remembering … ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this person.’

  ‘Where?’ Ray said.

  ‘We were … Bakker and I … that day Lyle was here, boss.’

  ‘Yes,’ Keeffe said.

  ‘He made a complaint about a Yank with a gun.’

  ‘Which you were supposed to follow up.’

  Cymric’s face reddened. ‘We did, and there was no-one home. So … we went to Hungry Jack’s, and this guy came out as we were going in. We watched him standing on the street. He was a tourist. He looked at a map, then got in a taxi. And … I reckon this is him.’ He was referring to the video still. ‘Same build, same hat, same belly bag … I’m sure it was him. Hang on – I’ll get Bakker.’

  Bakker emerged from the back room looking perplexed. But when he parked his peepers on the video still, he readily concurred with Cymric. ‘That’s him. That’s the guy from Hungry Jack’s. What’s he done?’

  ‘He’s a Yank,’ Cymric said.

  ‘That’s not a crime yet,’ Bakker said.

  ‘Lyle was sounding off about this Yank next door with a handgun. Bashed him with it, he claimed,’ Cymric said. ‘And he did have slashes under his eyes.’