by Peter Corris
‘Can you home in on the signal?’
‘Yes, but I should talk to Inspector Withers …’
‘Look at him,’ I said. ‘He’s got his hands full. And I have to tell you this, Constable …?’
‘Drewe.’
‘Constable Drewe. You saw me shake hands with Assistant Commissioner Morton, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘He co-opted me to keep an eye on the Inspector because Senior Sergeant Withers is involved in this case and he was worried about her father’s objectivity. D’you follow me?’
‘I’m not sure.’
I pushed him back down the path. ‘Come on, Constable. Show some initiative. You can call in whatever other help you like, but the Inspector’s better out of this.’
‘I dunno …’
I showed him the holster. ‘Look, they gave me my gun back and all. We can reach Morton and he’ll confirm what I’m saying. But we have to be quick!’
Drewe’s dislike of Withers probably gave me the edge. He suddenly became all business, pushed past the people congregating outside in the street and beckoned me over to the squad car. He twiddled with knobs, tried calling Glen, and got a hum. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘She isn’t far off.’
‘I know where she is,’ I slammed the door and ignored a few interested looks from reporters. ‘Sergei Costi’s house in Kahiba. Know it?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
He gunned the motor and took off quickly, forcing the interested reporters to jump out of the way. Constable Drewe was born to drive—he handled the car as if it was an extension of his body and he was connected to it with nerves and blood vessels. He drove very fast and I felt very safe. We went down Burwood Road, past the elaborate houses and Glen’s cottage and onto the stretch of road where the forest surrounds the few residences set on five-acre blocks. The hum got louder and Drewe pointed. A Honda Civic with police markings stood under a tree by the side of the dirt track that led off the main road towards the entrance to the Costi house.
Taking my second look at it, Sergei Costi’s house made those of Rory Coleman and Antonio Fanfani look cheap. There was something solid about it, as if it was rooted to the earth and all the new, fast money that might float around wouldn’t buy a brick of it. Except, of course, that it was fairly new and no doubt fairly fast money that had bought it.
Big pine trees grew close to the house on the south side and the ocean was visible away to the west. The sky had cleared completely and the house was bathed in sunshine. From this angle, I could see a swimming pool and a tennis court. There were two cars drawn up on the wide, bricked driveway. The only incongruous thing was the big, black motor bike parked contemptuously in the middle of the drive, blocking both cars.
Drewe went across to the Honda and peered inside. ‘It’s her car. What d’we do now?’
The big house looked unnaturally quiet and still. Why wasn’t anyone playing tennis or swimming? Where was the chauffeur and the under-gardener? ‘Try and get in touch with Morton,’ I said. ‘I don’t like the feel of this.’
Drewe got busy on the radio. I could hear the squawks and buzzes and the sound of agitated exchanges. I stood beside the car, leaning on the opened passenger door, and watched the house. Nothing moved. Then I heard Drewe. ‘Mr Hardy, I’ve got through to the Assistant Commissioner. He’s telling us to get …’
A sharp crack, like the sound of stockwhip, and the windscreen of the police car exploded. Drewe yelled as he was showered with glass. The bullet had missed my head by a few centimetres and I nearly dislocated every joint in my body getting down and under cover behind the door. ‘Drewe! You okay?’
‘Yeah. Cut a bit. Blood everywhere, but I think it’s just nicks. Shit!’
He was crouched low, half in and half out of the car. The radio buzzed angrily and he gave his call sign and reported that he’d been fired on. ‘Hunter, Victor, Bravo. Superficial wounds,’ he said. ‘Awaiting instructions, over.’
‘What’s happening?’ I said.
He waved me silent and listened. ‘Roger, out.’ He put the handset back on its cradle. A red light blinked angrily. ‘Reinforcements coming. Commissioner Morton’ll be here.’
‘But what’s going on?’
‘Officer down,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Withers. That’s all I know. I’m only a fucking constable, Mr Hardy. Do you really think they’d tell me?’
‘What about Inspector Withers?’
‘If he shows up I’m instructed to tell him to leave the area, on Commissioner Morton’s authority. Fat fucking chance. I just hope Morton gets here first. We’re supposed to withdraw now. Come on.’
‘I’m staying here. I’ve got an idea where that shot came from. You should go and get those cuts looked at.’
‘Fuck you,’ he said. He edged clear of the door and worked his way towards the back of the car. There was another whipping, slapping sound and the car shook.
‘Drewe?’
‘I’m all right. If he hits the petrol tank …’
‘Hundred to one against. I’ve spotted him, I’m pretty sure. How d’you work this radio?’
‘Button on the left of the handpiece—depress it to talk, and lift it to receive. The unit’s …’
‘Hunter, Victor, Bravo, I know.’
There was a note of panic in his voice now. ‘I’ve got blood in my eyes. I can’t see!’
‘Hold on, son,’ I said, ‘they’ll be here in a minute. You’ve done fine and I’ll say so.’
He laughed. Hysteria coming, I thought. Then I heard the sound of car tyres on the dirt. Six police cars rolled to a stop on the track. They were shielded from the house by trees but anyone really looking could spot them. I hoped Drewe didn’t try to make a break for them—he could get himself shot and draw attention to the cars at the same time. The radio buzzed and I reached over and grabbed it.
‘Hunter, Victor, Bravo, this is Hunter Victor King. Are you receiving?’
I pressed the button and said, ‘This is Hardy, Mr Morton, and I’m not going to go through all that rigmarole. I can hear you. Constable Drewe and I have been under fire from the house. Drewe has some superficial cuts. Now, what can you tell me?’
‘A lot,’ Morton said. ‘Too bloody much. Have you tried to get away from your present position?’
‘Drewe tried and nearly got a bullet for his pains. The shooter’s at an upstairs window. He’s got a pretty good rifle and he can shoot. Does Renato shoot?’
‘Yes. I’m told he’s also a CB freak, so there’s a pretty good chance he’ll listen in once he knows we’re here. Jesus Christ!’
‘What?’
‘It’s Ted Withers. Somebody stop that car!’
I screwed myself around and saw a car moving fast along the track, past the tree cover and down to where Drewe’s car and the Honda were parked. Ted Withers jumped from the car the second it stopped.
‘Get down!’ I yelled.
He ignored me and began to walk towards the house. The whipping, slapping sound came again and Withers staggered back as if he’d walked into a glass wall. I didn’t think, I moved. Out of the car, ducking low, almost crawling. I scurried across to where Withers was twitching on the ground. I grabbed his arm and pulled him back into his car. His feet clawed at the ground. I couldn’t tell whether he was cooperating or resisting but I pulled him anyway. Another shot sounded but it clanged into the car I’d just left. I hoped Drewe wasn’t doing anything foolish. I pushed Withers into the passenger seat of his car and tucked myself in behind the wheel with my head below the dashboard. I turned the ignition, shoved the lever into reverse and put my knee on the accelerator. The door swung wildly and the car slewed and bucked as it roared backwards. I didn’t try to steer it beyond keeping the wheel from spinning. Blood was leaking from Withers and getting all over both of us. He was swearing at me and the world.
A bullet whanged off the roof and I heard someone shout ‘Left! Left!’ I tugged at the steering wheel and then there was a grinding crunch an
d we stopped. I fell out of the open door. My first impulse was to try and crawl under the car but a hand gripped my shoulder and guided me back behind the tree I’d slammed into. Morton was there along with several other cops. Then I heard a struggle and more swearing from Withers as he was manhandled back under cover. His face was white and his clothes were soaked with blood but he was still fighting. He saw Morton and stopped struggling.
‘Leslie,’ he said, ‘Glen’s in there.’
‘I know, Ted. We’ll do everything we can. Take it easy till the doctor gets here. I’d say Hardy here saved your life.’
Withers’ colour was worse, greyish. He was close to collapse. ‘Fuck him,’ he said. ‘He got her into this fucking mess.’ He sagged at the knees and one of the cops gently lowered him to the ground.
‘Hardy,’ Morton said, ‘you all right?’
I was wiping blood from my face with my sleeve. ‘Yeah. Where’s Drewe?’
‘He went sideways when you got Ted’s car moving. You bloody nearly ran over him.’
‘He did all right,’ I said. ‘Will you please tell me what’s going on?’
Morton wasn’t listening to me. He looked across to where a uniformed cop with a rifle fitted with a telescopic sight was squatting, training the weapon on the house. ‘I can see him, sir,’ the marksman said. ‘He’s at the open window, top left. But I’ll need another couple of square inches of him to be absolutely sure of a shot.’
‘Wait,’ Morton said.
22
The sequence of events, as Morton gave them to me, was this: Glen had gone to the house to interview Gina Costi in order to discover whether she’d told Renato about Oscar Bach having raped her. At about the same time Morton got through to Sergei Costi on the telephone. He outlined the problem in general terms and asked Costi to come into town for a discussion. The next bit Morton had to reconstruct from a panicked and interrupted telephone call from Costi. Renato had overheard Glen talking to his sister. He had gone crazy and burst in threatening to kill the girl and Mark Roper. There had been a struggle and Glen had been shot. Costi Senior had quickly rung Morton with the gist of this before his son had cut him off.
‘No communication since then,’ Morton said. ‘We don’t know the condition of Sergeant Withers or the other people in the house. We don’t even know how many people are in there.’
A policeman came scuttling across towards us, bent low. He glanced hesitantly at me but Morton made an impatient gesture and he spoke up. ‘Sir, we’ve had a communication from the house. From Renaldo Costi.’
‘Renato,’ Morton said. ‘Go on.’
‘He says he wants Mark Roper brought to the house. If he doesn’t get here within an hour he’s going to kill Sergeant Withers, his mother and father,’ he glanced at his notebook, ‘Mrs Adamo and himself.’
‘Jesus,’ Morton said. ‘Is the line open to the house?’
‘He said he’d cut it off in ten minutes. That’s about four minutes ago.’
‘Ring it and patch me through from my car. Quick!’
‘Sir.’ The cop ran off, forgetting to bend over.
Morton looked at me. ‘Siege and hostage situation. Terrific.’
‘What’ll you say to him?’
‘Stall him. What else can I do? I can’t deliver a citizen up to him like a sacrifice.’
‘Substitute?’ I said. ‘Decoy?’
We moved to one of the police cars and Morton snapped his fingers while an officer fiddled with the radio. ‘I was trying not to think about it. What’s this Roper look like?’
‘Tall, dark, thin, young.’
Morton stood about four inches shorter than me; both of us looked every day of our ages. ‘Lets me out, and you.’
‘This time of day he’d be wearing a blue overall. He’s a pest exterminator.’
Morton nodded. He spoke rapidly to a hovering sergeant who nodded and hurried away. Then he picked up the radio. ‘Mr Costi. This is Assistant Commissioner Leslie Morton. Can you hear me?’
The voice came through loud and clear—young, slightly sing-song, although very Australian. ‘This is Ronny Costi. Who’d you say you were?’
‘I’m the senior policeman here. We should talk …’
‘Nothing to talk about, mate. Everything’s fucked.’
‘It doesn’t have to be like that, Mr Costi. Now …’
The voice went up into a scream. ‘My sister’s been raped and that little cunt Roper’s told everyone about it and this family’s buggered. It’s history. I’m going …’
Morton must have figured he had nothing to lose. His voice cut across the raving. ‘Listen to me! We’re getting Mr Roper here. We can talk some more. We’ll get your brother too …’
‘No! Leave him the fuck out of it!’
‘Mr Costi! Let me talk to your father.’
Renato let out a stream of curses in Italian and English; I caught only the obvious Italian ones about the Madonna and violating her; the English ones were in the same vein without the religious associations. Morton’s knuckles went white as he gripped the radio handpiece. He glanced across at the marksman who was still in position. The marksman shook his head and signalled that he didn’t have a target.
Morton tried again. ‘Renato, Ronny, listen …’
The voice went suddenly calm. ‘Shut up, cunt. Roper better be here fuckin’ soon, or we’ll all be dead and I just might get a few of you cunts out there as well.’
The connection broke. Morton handed the radio to the policeman who’d operated it before. He called the central communications room, spoke briefly, waited and shook his head. ‘Line’s dead, sir. He’s cut it.’
A shot from the house. The windscreen of the Honda Glen had driven disintegrated. Another shot screamed off the roof of the car and whistled away into the trees.
‘He’s back at the window,’ the marksman said. ‘But I still can’t get a big enough piece of him. I could try …’
‘No,’ Morton said. ‘He’s just crazy enough to start killing if he gets scared or wounded. We’d better get things straightened up around here. Sergeant Crowther!’
Morton issued instructions for the road to be closed and enquired about progress on bringing Mark Roper, Bruno Costi and a priest to the scene. Sergeant Crowther told him that everything was done that could be done. I could see Morton’s eyes drifting over the physiques of the dozen or so cops as he requested shields, bullet-proof vests and more weapons to be brought up.
Sergeant Crowther said, ‘Should we call the heavy squad, sir?’
Morton looked at him. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You’re right, I’m not. I’d rather try it myself than let those bloody cowboys loose. It’s brains that’ll get us out of this, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
I’d been hanging around, listening, and keeping an eye on Ted Withers. A paramedic had arrived and said the wound was clean. The marksman asked him about the calibre of the bullet and the medic just stared at him. We were all operating on different wavelengths and I wondered how long Morton could hold it all together. He was doing a pretty good job, so far.
‘Hardy,’ he said, ‘you look as if you’re thinking. If you’ve got any bright ideas you might let me know.’
I shook my head. ‘I was working out something about the Costis. I think I’ve got it, not that it’s any help. Why’s the father at home?’
I asked to try to get a line on how Morton felt about Sergei Costi. Whether he regarded him like Ted Withers, as expendable. But he just grunted which told me nothing, ‘Semi-retired. Not too well.’
‘I’ve got a number I was given by an Italian down south in the same line of business as Costi. He’s the one whose daughter went missing. He said he had influence up here. He might have some ideas …’
‘If you’re thinking you can get him here to talk to Ronny the way you promised, forget it. This’ll all be over long before that.’
‘No,’ I said, �
�I’m just grasping at straws, like you.’
He shot me an evil look. ‘Go with Sergeant Dexter. He’s dropping in on the neighbours to tell them to keep their heads down. One of them’ll let you use the phone if you ask nicely.’
He was dismissing me from the scene of action and we both knew it. There was no point in resisting; I wasn’t going to personally attack the house with my .38 in my fist and a handkerchief wrapped around my head. It was a waiting game and we both knew it.
‘He’s tense,’ the marksman said. ‘Give me another three inches, mate. C’mon, two inches!’
I heard Morton say ‘Wait,’ again as I went off to find Sergeant Dexter.
The Sergeant wasn’t happy with his assignment. He was a big-bellied cop, youngish for his rank but on the way to looking older. He didn’t like me for being a civilian but he liked to talk and it balanced out. As we walked along the track towards the first of the houses, he told me that we should rush the Costi place now.
‘He might kill everyone if we do that,’ I said.
‘Wouldn’t get them all. He will if we leave it much longer.’
‘Know him, do you?’
‘Ronny? Sure I know him. He’s as crazy as they come. I mean right across the board—bikes, booze, dope and religion.’
‘They’re getting a priest,’ I said.
Dexter kicked a stone with his highly polished boot. ‘Ronny’s crazy enough to shoot him.’
‘D’you know Sergeant Withers?’
‘Yeah. She’s all right. She can’t help having that bastard as her old man.’
We reached the first place, a mock French farmhouse, all sand-blasted brick and narrow windows. There was a small vineyard and orchard near the house with a lot of watering equipment. A four-wheel-drive stood outside. The owners, a nervous looking elderly couple wearing tailored overalls, stood on the front porch watching us as we approached.
‘The police at last. Thank god,’ the man said. ‘Can you please tell us what’s going on up there?’ He inclined his old, bald head in the direction of the Costi house.