Out of the Blue

by JR Carroll

  ‘All right. What about a car? Did one stop outside your shop for a while, then drive on? Perhaps more than once? Did you happen to notice the same car going by at different times?’

  The man opened his hands helplessly. ‘Sir, I wish only that I could tell you, Yes. But I am working hard, making the pizzas. There is no much time to look and to see these things. I am sorry.’

  ‘I know. I understand.’ He gave up then, went slack and rubbed his face. He now felt painfully tired and wondered what the hell it was he was trying to achieve here. It was all beyond him. He thanked the pizza man for his time and went out into the street. The rain had thinned out considerably and he did not mind it wetting his head—the rain and the cool air roused him. He sat in his car and lowered the window. The windscreen had fogged up and he waited for it to clear. In fact he felt too tired to drive to Avoca—even to the end of this street. He lit a cigarette as a means of delaying the effort, watching the smoke curl out of the window and dissolve. It occurred to him then that he could be dead wrong about this, that the answers he searched for simply didn’t exist. It was possible that Karen had run off the road entirely of her own accord, that all he had to contend with were the phantoms of his own creation. It would not have been the first time.

  He had thrown the butt out and started the car when from the corner of his eye he saw the girl. She was standing on the edge of the road outside the pizza shop, waiting for a car to pass before crossing. She must have come out of the shop, he thought, and then saw that she was heading towards him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, leaning in at the open window of the Magna with her hands on her knees, ‘were you in the shop just now?’ Dennis put her age at about fifteen or sixteen.

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘My father told me that you were asking about the stolen truck.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well …’ She screwed up her face, from embarrassment perhaps. Rain specked her face. ‘This is probably nothing at all, but anyway, a couple of friends and I were there talking near the seat’—she indicated a bench along from the shop ‘—and this car came up and stopped. This was about, oh, nine-thirty or something. We thought he was gonna say something smart, you know, but he wasn’t looking at us at all. He was looking over there at the parking lot. Anyway he took off, then a few minutes later we saw him again. He did exactly the same thing.’

  Dennis stared at her. His chest surged. Suddenly he was not tired at all.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said.

  ‘Millie,’ she said.

  ‘Okay, Millie. Do you want to get out of the rain? Will we talk over there?’ Under the shops.

  ‘No, it’s all right. I don’t mind. But I have to go soon.’ She looked back a bit anxiously, but her father was not visible.

  ‘Millie, listen. It’s important. Do you know what sort of a car it was?’

  ‘Sure. It was a Commodore. A nice white one.’

  ‘Do you know about cars?’

  ‘A bit. This was a VK, anyway. I know that for sure because my brother’s got one the same. Different colour, though.’

  ‘You didn’t happen to notice its number plate?’ Millie had done well, but this was too much to hope for. She shook her head.

  ‘What about the driver? Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘Not really. It was a bit too dark, and anyway he was on the other side, you know? But there was only one guy in the car.’

  ‘And you didn’t see him again after that?’

  ‘No. We all went home then anyway.’

  She had no more to tell him. Dennis thanked her and she scampered back. She gave a last look back across the road at him, and Dennis waved. She did not wave back, but went inside and closed the glass door.

  He got back to the Pyrenees at around five. Regulars filled the bar. Brett and their occasional fill-in barman, the one-armed Wally Scrivens, were hard at it. Wally was as skilled with his stump as anyone with a whole limb, and he’d had about thirty years of practice at it, snapping the tap on and off with a deft flick of the right shoulder. Dennis picked up his mail, went into the lounge, and sat down. He needed to work out his next move, keep going, but he couldn’t continue leaving Brett to run the show here. There were a lot of beers to be pulled between now and dinnertime. He would help out for a while and think at the same time. A white VK Commodore wasn’t much to go on, but it was a lot more than he had before. There were probably only about a hundred thousand of them on the road. He wondered if he should go back on his hands and knees to Frank Stannard, but somehow couldn’t see the benefits of that.

  He stood up again and fanned the letters. He had no desire at all to open them. They were accounts, invoices, bank statements, advertising material from liquor merchants—all standard. Except for one that took his attention, addressed to him by hand on a small envelope. There was no address on the back. He was behind the bar by the time he opened and took out the single sheet it contained. He put the other letters down and stared at the page. Kept staring. Then the phone rang. He didn’t hear it. Brett answered and then said, ‘For you, Dennis.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The phone. For you.’

  He picked up the handset. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello? Is that Dennis Gatz?’ A woman.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘Oh, hello. It’s Noeline Gallagher here. I work at the Welcome Stranger in Ballarat. Lyle Skinner said you wanted information about that stolen truck the other night.’

  Christ. ‘Yes, that’s right. I do. Were you working that night?’

  ‘Certainly was. And look, I don’t know if this is any use to you, but I took some stuff out to the big bin, you know?’

  ‘Next door, yes.’ He placed the sheet of paper face down on the bar.

  ‘Right. About quarter to ten this was. Anyway I saw a bloke walking towards me, into the car park, and then when he saw me he turned around very smartly and went back the way he came. I thought that was a bit funny at the time, watched him go, but then forgot all about it. We were busy that night with the birthday party.’

  ‘Okay, Noeline. Can you describe this man for me?’

  ‘Well, he was short …’

  A new group entered the bar. Brett and Wally had their hands full. Dennis said, ‘Excuse me, Noeline, we’ve got a bit of a busy time here right now, so I’m going to have to go. But I want to speak to you again in some detail later, say at around seven, seven-thirty. Would that be convenient?’

  Noeline said, ‘Fine. Want me to call back?’

  ‘Sure, if you don’t mind. But can I have your number, just in case?’ He had already grabbed a pen. When Noeline gave the number he wrote it on his wrist. Then he put the phone down and rushed to fill glasses while Brett put some used ones through the dishwasher.

  At the end of the rush, an hour later, he drew Brett aside and showed him what had come in the mail that day. Brett scanned it without saying anything. It didn’t take long to read. Karen’s death notice, inserted by Dennis himself, had been cut out of a newspaper and stuck on the page. Beneath that was written, in biro, YOUR NEXT. And below that again, THINK ABOUT IT ARSHOLE.

  Brett handed the sheet back. ‘Might just be a crank.’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘Might not be, too. What do you think?’

  Dennis blew air from his cheeks and said, ‘How many death notices appear in the paper every day? Plenty. So what are the odds on some fuckwit getting his rocks off sending this to me? How does he know me, anyway? Where to send it, for instance? That wasn’t in the paper at all.’

  ‘Those are all good questions. I don’t know the answers, Dennis. Where was it sent from?’

  ‘Postmarked Preston Mail Centre, in Melbourne. That’s a big mail centre.’

  Brett thought about it, then said, ‘Well, take it to Frank. It might be genuine.’

  ‘I think it is genuine, Brett. The guy obviously wants to put the wind up me.’

  ‘You think it’s tied in with what happen
ed to Karen?’

  ‘I’m afraid I do. I’ve seen lots of hoaxes, mate. This doesn’t fit the pattern.’ He took a deep breath, then added, ‘I think this is part of a campaign. Someone’s really determined to destroy me. But they want me to suffer as much as possible first.’

  This unnerved Brett. But Dennis was rock-solid now. Any fear he felt for his own safety was more than matched by a growing sea of belligerence and hatred in him.

  Brett said, ‘Who, then?’

  Dennis shook his head. ‘This could go back years. I was in Homicide for five, helped put lots of guys away and stirred up plenty more. These are murderers I’m talking about. Before that I was in CIB. I was never particularly subtle in my methods, Brett. There might be a hundred men out there somewhere who hate my guts enough to do this.’

  Brett glanced across into the public bar and said, ‘Here’s Frank now if you want to show it to him.’

  Dennis looked at Frank, and Frank returned his gaze stonily. He was out of uniform and by himself. ‘I dunno,’ Dennis said. ‘I’ll work on it. Better get him a beer though.’ Wally had disappeared somewhere. Brett made to go, but Dennis stopped him. ‘I’ll do it. You can get lost now, anyway. Take a break. Thanks, Brett.’

  SEVEN

  In the end he didn’t bother saying anything about it to Frank, who only stayed for two drinks. He had come on a fence-mending mission, explaining how he regretted their difference of opinion, especially considering the circumstances, and how he’d like to fix things up here and now if possible. Dennis was surprised. This had been a tough thing for a man like Frank to come at, admitting he’d been wrong. He’d obviously swallowed hard before making this visit. What Frank Stannard had just done ran counter to everything a cop believed, his every instinct. A town this size, everyone will know what a weak bastard he is in about half an hour.

  In his position, Dennis would have just written the guy off and badmouthed him every chance he got.

  So Dennis apologised too, they shook hands, end of story. When Dennis went to shout him a beer, Frank accepted it reluctantly, drank fast and left, saying he was on his way to Melbourne for a few days to attend a conference that was bound to be a complete waste of his time. But they were putting him up at a decent hotel, and anyhow his wife wanted to go Christmas shopping. Dennis didn’t mind seeing him leave. He wanted to go upstairs and ring Noeline Gallagher.

  ‘As I said, he was short,’ Noeline said.

  ‘How short, Noeline? Take a guess.’

  ‘About … I dunno, five-six or seven? Around there.’

  ‘Right. Build?’

  ‘He was … thickset. Like a weightlifter or something.’

  ‘Can you take a stab at his age?’

  ‘Not young. But it was dark, remember. I didn’t really see his face, he turned away that quick, but he definitely wasn’t a young bloke. I’d say thirties or forties.’

  ‘Thirties? Or forties?’

  Noeline exhaled into the receiver. ‘I really couldn’t be sure. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s okay. What was he wearing?’

  ‘A black T-shirt. Jeans.’

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Dark. Kind of … thick.’

  Dennis was forming a mental picture of this short, VK-driving character who was probably older than Noeline thought. By the sound of her, Noeline herself was only about twenty, and so wouldn’t be a good judge of older peoples’ ages. But she had done a fair job.

  Dennis asked her a few more questions, pushing his luck, but Noeline had nothing more to tell him. The encounter had lasted for about five seconds, she thought. There was nothing unusual about his gait and she saw no distinguishing marks or features on him. He had simply turned around and walked away, concealed by the night.

  Dennis sat on the bed and examined the letter. Did the short man do this? He could see a stubby little hand cutting the notice out, sticking it down and writing the sub-literate message. Seemed to work. Thick body. Thick hair. No one from his own past came to mind. But if he is a car thief he is bound to be on file somewhere. Trouble is, well … there was too much there to think about. There are many more petty crooks than cops in this state. And how would he get access to that sort of information, anyway, these days? Of course it was possible that there were prints on this page, on the sticky tape especially, but who would do that? Gilhooley? Maybe. Maybe someone Gilhooley knows. Gilhooley’s a bit young, though. He probably doesn’t know anyone much. Dennis lay on the bed and thought about it. He lay there for about three minutes before falling asleep. No one called to wake him and the next thing he knew it was six in the morning, and he hadn’t moved. He wondered if he should go downstairs and check that everything was right, but didn’t have the strength and anyhow it was too late to worry about that now. So he got undressed, climbed into bed properly and slept for another three hours.

  When he got up he panicked, got dressed fast and hurried down. Being on his own now meant that he could never sleep in. Even though he didn’t usually open until eleven, there were always lots of things to do in a pub. For the moment it didn’t really matter, with Brett on hand, but he was going to have to think about his future soon.

  Everything had been cleaned up and the stools were upturned on the bar. He poured himself an orange juice, drank it slowly. His stomach was empty but he wasn’t hungry. He was going to have to get some food into him today. His arms trembled slightly, there was a flutter in his chest and a tic over one of his eyes. He put the glass down, grabbed the phone book, rang Ballarat CIB and asked for Tony Gilhooley. The detective was in, and when his voice came on the line Dennis immediately felt better.

  ‘Tony? It’s Dennis Gatz here. Remember?’

  ‘Sure do. How’s it going, Dennis?’

  ‘All right.’ What a joke. ‘Listen, Tony. Goran Pipic’s truck, the Ford F350, was definitely used to run Karen off the road. I can prove it.’

  ‘I see,’ Gilhooley said. He didn’t sound all that convinced, however. Dennis realised that to keep him on side he was going to have to sound more sensible and much less passionate about this thing.

  ‘Tony, do you know if that truck was tested for prints?’

  ‘I do, and the answer is No. Stolen cars don’t rate that sort of attention, mate. With the limited forensic resources available to us.’

  ‘Yeah. Thought you’d say that. It’d be too late now, I guess.’

  ‘You guess right. Even supposing I could swing it. Remember I’m just a humble sergeant.’

  ‘Fair enough. But listen, Tony, there’s something else. A threatening letter that’s just arrived yesterday. I wonder if you’d take a look at it’

  ‘What sort of threatening letter?’

  Dennis swallowed. ‘They’ve cut out Karen’s death notice from the paper and added words to the effect that I’m next. I think it’s genuine.’

  Gilhooley thought about it. ‘I see. Postmarked?’

  ‘Melbourne.’

  ‘So it’s not a local idiot.’

  ‘No. I believe it’s the same guy that killed Karen,’ he added. ‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Tony. I’d like this letter tested for prints. I think it rates.’

  Gilhooley breathed out. He was trying to be reasonable, weighing things up. He had been co-operative to this point and didn’t want to wipe Dennis, but at the same time he had a full-time job to do and didn’t want to encourage this guy too much. Dennis read that over the phone, read it perfectly.

  ‘Tony,’ he said, ‘I’m not some prick trying to waste your time. I know how it is having people like that in your ear. It’s a pain in the butt. But I’m on the level. I promise you I’m not paranoid and not some fucking demented attention-seeker. Do you believe me?’

  Gilhooley didn’t hesitate this time. ‘I believe you, Dennis. If I sound otherwise I’m sorry, but I’ve got my own position to consider. I can’t go whipping this thing up just on your say-so. I have to be convinced that the time and money spent on it is justified, or I cease to be taken seriously around
here. That’s my concern.’

  ‘I know, I know. But look at the letter, will you?’

  ‘I’ll look at it. No promises, though.’

  Dennis laughed. ‘Naturally. I’ll bring it in this morning. And Tony, one more thing. I have a description of the man who may have taken Pipic’s truck. A woman saw this guy loitering. Can I arrange for her to go through some pictures with you while I’m there?’

  ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘I have. No one else wants to know.’ He added, ‘Except you.’

  Gilhooley, his patience tried, said unhappily, ‘Bring your witness in, Dennis. But listen, if you’re going to continue these private investigations, watch your step, right? Don’t cross any lines. I can only back you so far, then you’re on your own.’

  ‘I won’t. Or if I do, you’ll never know. Won’t be your problem, Tony. See you later.’

  He disconnected, rang Noeline Gallagher from the number still on his wrist. She was in, too—his luck was running. Yes, she’d meet him in Ballarat to look at pictures, but she had to start work at two, so could it be before then? That would be ideal, he assured her.

  Next he rang Brett Jennings and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking the first shift today. Wally would be in later. No sweat, Brett said. Be there in an hour. Dennis thanked him and went upstairs for a shower and shave. In the mirror his face looked thinner, ravaged. There were black bags under his eyes. His hair was more grey than fair. When had that happened? He didn’t look much like himself at all. There was no life discernible in that face. It shocked Dennis. To his own eyes he looked like someone you would skirt around if you came across him in the street at night. He looked like someone with nothing left to lose. He looked like a dead man. He looked how he felt.

  Teddy Van Vliet felt fine. He was on his way to a rendezvous with Graham to pick up the rest of his dough. When he’d called Graham and asked where the fuck he’d been for the last two days, Graham told him he’d been out of town. Wouldn’t say where, just that he’d fixed himself up with a good alibi in case Teddy fucked up. Protecting his arse. Graham had laughed about that, but Teddy didn’t see the joke. If I’da got caught, he told Graham, youda gone down too, mate. You think I’d wear that on me own? Forget it, Graham had said. You did great, Teddy. The man is pleased. The man is delighted. Come on, loosen up. I’ve got four grand to give you. Let’s meet.