by Peter Corris
‘What happened?’ I asked the person standing next to me, a tall man in his shirt sleeves. His arms were tanned but his face had lost all colour.
‘He jumped from ten floors up. I was looking out the window and I saw him go past. Christ, it was horrible.’
‘Who is he?’
He shook his head and moved back through the crowd. The paramedics had evidently got the go-ahead to move the body. I couldn’t see much but I heard gasps from the people closer in when they got a clearer look at the jumper. The police shouted for the crowd to move back and leave a path for the ambulance. Most stood rooted to the spot and a young constable advanced threateningly. I looked around for the person who seemed to be taking it most calmly and found him in a motorcycle courier who was leaning against his bike, smoking a cigarette.
‘What’s on the tenth floor, do you know?’
‘Yeah, I know. I go in there all the time. You a reporter?’
‘No, I just had a business appointment in the building and I wondered ...’
He blew smoke. He must have been all of nineteen years old but violent death didn’t worry him. ‘All architects up there. This guy must have come from the Clark, Perkins & Welsh office.’
‘Wells,’ I said automatically.
‘Hey, that’s right. That where you were going?’
‘No. Who was he?’
He dropped his butt on the ground and put the heel of his boot on it. ‘Heard some dude say it was one of the bosses. Fucker probably deserved to die.’
I squinted up at the glistening pile. ‘I don’t see any broken windows.’
He mounted his bike and kicked the stand away. ‘Nah, you can’t break them or open them, ’cept in the toilets. That’s gotta be where he went. Probably had a big shit first so he wouldn’t make such a bad mess on the footpath.’
Tough guy. He kicked the starter, pulled down his visor and roared away. The crowd started to break up. I approached the cop who was guarding the main entrance, supervising the journalists and the TV crews that had arrived. I showed him my licence and said I had business in the building. ‘Nothing to do with this,’ I said. ‘At least, I hope not. I was going to see Peter Wilson. Who was it that fell, or did he jump?’
‘Name of Clark,’ the cop said. ‘I think you’d better come back another day.’
‘I suppose you’re right. It’ll keep. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
Chatswood, aka New York City.
19
I hadn’t had the interview, but that didn’t stop me having the drink. The bar called itself a tavern and I wouldn’t have cared if it had called itself a cantina as long as it had dark beer on tap. I drained the first middy more or less straight off and took the second away into a dark comer where the noise of the television didn’t penetrate and there was a solid partition between me and the pinball players.
The older I get the less I believe in coincidence. It offers explanations that are too easy. Things are mostly connected, although the nature of the connection can be mysterious to the point of being unknowable. I was sure that Julian Clark’s death was connected to his difficulties with gambling and with Ken Galvani. Didn’t matter whether he jumped or was pushed, there would be a connection. The trouble with this line of thinking was that it raised the question of a link between his death and my intention to see him. I felt that such a link existed, but I didn’t have the faintest idea of how it operated. One thing was certain—with two deaths racked up, the stakes had to be high, much higher than some competition about what design was chosen for the casino.
I sipped the second beer and considered my options. Being on the inside probably put me in an ideal spot to find out more on the extent and nature of Ken Galvani’s interest in the casino. I could work on that. But Joe Galvani had suddenly moved to centre stage. He was the link between the two deaths. I left half of the drink in deference to the law, and went back to my car, sucking in air and trying to swing my left arm as high as I could and practising taking it up behind my back. Must have looked strange, but the pain-controlled rigidity seemed to be easing.
I got moving and punched in the Greenwich number. Just as the call was answered and I asked for Joe, a truck shot past me, its big wheels were over the line and seemed to be threatening to tear off my side vision mirror. I swore and swerved and heard a very offended woman on the other end of the line.
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I’m sorry. Is he there?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. He has been ill for several days and is at home. Perhaps you’d care to call back tomorrow.’
She hung up. I tried to remember where Joe lived. I’d been there once with Scott to a barbecue. It was at the time I was between women and Scott had thought to line me up with one of his cousins. I couldn’t remember her name. Gold crosses around necks tend to put me off although Scott had assured me it didn’t mean anything. A mental image of the tiny cross brought back the address—Ryde, near the Field of Mars reserve. I stopped, checked the Gregory’s, and swung off the highway and began the run down to the river. I became conscious of the other car soon after making the turn. When I’m in the Falcon, I check automatically for anything unusual in the traffic, but unfamiliarity with the Commodore had thrown me out of the habit.
It wasn’t that I knew the tan Honda Accord was following me, it was just a sense that the car had been in the traffic longer than it should have been. I didn’t do anything different, that isn’t how it’s done. I kept to a level speed and concentrated on trying to let the Honda make a false move. I still had the map open on the passenger seat and I saw that there was a four-way intersection coming up at the river. I turned hard right—two options rejected. The Honda slowed slightly but came after me. I increased speed wondering what to do. Not close enough for me to see how many in the car and no way to judge the intent. I was on a narrower road with bush growing closely on one side; on the other a high cyclone fence enclosed a nursery. Good spot for establishing that I was being tailed, bad for everything else. I needed people, traffic, cover, and the road was empty.
The Honda moved up closer as I passed the nursery, hoping for houses and getting instead another high fence—a research facility of some kind. I could see now that there were two men in the car. I picked up speed but the Honda was going to be faster. I still had bush on one side, no bends, and up ahead I could see yellow-and black barriers, aluminium sheds and scraped earth—roadworks, another carriageway being constructed. The tan car was almost alongside me; the windows were tinted and I could only see shadows. I was sweating and gripping the wheel as the Honda pulled out and began to turn to cut me off. I let it go, touched the brake and then floored the accelerator. Now I was the one on the outside and the Honda was slowing down, the driver realising he’d screwed up.
I rammed him, not hard, just at the door pillar, catching it perfectly. The Honda shot through a wooden barrier, splintering it as the driver fought for control. I concentrated on getting the Commodore back on a straight track but I saw the Honda out of the corner of my eye, bumping and throwing up dust as it ploughed through the bed of the new road. The work must have been suspended, because there was nobody about—maybe a stop-work meeting was on. I wasn’t out of the woods. The driver had lifted his game; he had the car under control and was heading back towards the road. I’d spent too long watching. Then the Honda wobbled and lost speed as its wheels dropped into some kind of a shallow trench. Broken axle territory. It stopped. I wasn’t more than thirty metres away. A man jumped from the car, levelled what looked like a military carbine, and pumped bullets at me. A window cracked and I heard two rounds tear through the body of the car, entering and exiting. I hit the gas. Not heroic, but if there’s a way for an unarmed man to get the better of one with an automatic weapon I don’t know it. Pity really, because I recognised the guy with the gun—Baldy from the park in Rozelle, and he had one score against me already.
The directory had fallen to the floor. I was unsu
re of where I was and had no idea of how to get to Joe Galvani’s. I just wanted to keep moving. I became aware of a scraping sound and I pulled into a quiet street and got out to look. I’d crumpled the front panel when I’d hit the Honda and it was rubbing against the tyre. I kicked and pulled it clear. There were two bullet holes in the back window and the back seat had some small pieces of glass on it where the bullet had punched through. I examined the interior and found that the slug that had broken the window had lodged in the dash a few centimetres from me after passing through the seat. Close.
That set me thinking about the timing of Julian Clark’s death. It had happened within two hours of my finding out about his role in the scheme of things. That couldn’t be accidental. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone had lost their life after coming within the scope of one of my investigations. It wasn’t something I liked to think about but I had to. How could it happen? I hadn’t spoken to anybody. I’d just sat in the car, read the transcripts, listened to the tape, made a few phone calls—the car!
Finding it didn’t take long—there are only so many places you can plant a bug in a car and get good reception. The motor noise and the electricals are the problem. This was a state of the art number, located in the roof near the interior light. The fabric where it had been inserted was invisibly mended, almost. I thought back over the phone calls, trying to remember who I’d rung with what results. What names had been mentioned? Clark. I hadn’t got through but I’d announced my interest in him loud and clear. Joe Galvani? I hadn’t got through the first two times and when I had the chances were the passing truck had blotted out the sound. I dismantled the car phone, not being tender with it, but found no device there.
Unpleasant hi-tech thoughts. Then I wondered just how much hi-tech I was up against. I crouched down and stuck my head under the car, locating it almost immediately. The transmitter. Good planning. They knew the car they were looking for and the area to find it in but took no chances. I was about to pull the thing out when I had second thoughts. If they had a backup car they could be here, homing in on the signal pretty quickly. Best to be sure. The short street ran into a grid with a good number of outlets. I could hear the hum of fast-moving traffic but it was a fair way off. Once your quarry was out of that street, no telling where he was. There were houses on one side—big, deep-garden-in-front jobs with lots of trees and shrubs. One the other side was a park with swings and slides and a rollercoaster-style track for BMX bikes. No kids for another half hour or so. A stand of casuarinas behind the park filled in the space between it and a couple of public tennis courts.
I scooted over to the park and ducked into the casuarinas, three deep. I was sure the shadow was sufficient to keep me hidden, especially if I kept dead still, as I intended to do. I waited, squatting. A couple of cars came down the street, moving on through to the highway. A dark Ford Fairmont had the right look but it turned into one of the driveways and a woman got out, pulling plastic shopping bags after her. Never can tell. I had decided to wait for half an hour, before any kids arrived, and was about to move when they showed up.
Another tan Honda. Three men—Baldy and Runty from the park and a driver—tall, wearing dark clothes and a peaked cap. They parked behind the Commodore and approached it carefully. Baldy’s carbine was hidden inside his loose jacket and he moved slightly awkwardly. He looked around a lot, including one piercing gaze straight in my direction. It was like a photographer telling you to stand still—you immediately become aware of a gentle sway and of an itch you just have to scratch. I was in range of the gun and it could probably have chopped through the two trees between me and it. I froze.
At a word from Peaked Cap, Baldy stopped surveying the field and joined the others by the driver’s door. It had taken them long enough to get there. At a guess, they might have feared I was inside, wounded or dead. They’d drop that idea when they saw there was no blood. They’d notice that I’d located the bug, then what would they do? What would I have done? I wasn’t sure and neither were they. The decision was made for them by the arrival of a couple of kids, boys, who threw their canvas school bags under the slide and commenced to give the playground a working over. They also displayed some curiosity about the men clustered around the car. Would have been more if they’d been able to see the punctured window and the bullet holes, but it was enough for my threesome. In a move I hadn’t anticipated, Peaked Cap hopped into the Commodore, started it up and drove away. The other two went back to the Honda and followed. Smart move, Cliff, leave the keys so they’ll think you walked or ran away. Didn’t think they’d pinch the bloody thing, did you?
That left me stranded somewhere in the back of Lindfield, unarmed except for a Swiss army knife, up against well-armed enemies and needing to get to Joe Galvani fast. I came out from behind the trees and walked along the edge of the park towards the road. The boys stopped playing and looked at me as if I was one of the bad guys. I tried to give them a jaunty wave with my left hand, forgetting about the crook shoulder. It probably looked something like a Nazi salute and they stared after me all the way until I was out of sight. Cabs don’t cruise those kinds of streets and telephone boxes aren’t numerous. I plodded along, moving west. The sun was slanting low and bothering my eyes. The pavement felt hard and the gradient seemed steep.
I spotted a phone box and broke into a jog, sending a bolt of pain through my side, worse than a stitch. I swore and slowed down, praying that a phone box in a nice, middle-class neighbourhood like this would work. It apparently did because a young woman was using it. She stood relaxed with the door open, blowing out smoke. I fretted, pacing around the box, jiggling coins, looking at my watch. Just when I was about to haul her out, she hung up and stepped from the box, gave me a sweet smile and strolled away. I clawed out some money and was about to put it in when I saw that the box worked by phonecard only. I sagged and looked at the instrument, tempted for the first time in my life to vandalise a telephone. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. When I opened the door they were there, all three of them.
Baldy opened his coat just wide enough to let me see the gun. ‘Nice try, Hardy,’ he said. ‘Now I think you’d better come along with us.’
20
Peaked Cap had a cosh in his hand, meaning they had a noisy and a quiet way to get me to do what they wanted. I didn’t fancy either, so I got in the car. Peaked Cap drove, Runty sat beside him and Baldy got in the back with me, on my right. He took an automatic pistol from his pocket and put the carbine on the floor between his feet.
‘Empty your pockets,’ he said.
I looked at him. ‘Or what?’
He tapped the driver on the shoulder and the cosh was passed back to him. Good teamwork, not much room to swing the cosh in but probably enough. I emptied my pockets. Baldy passed the contents to Runty who shoved them in a plastic bag. Then he swivelled around and gestured for me to hold out my hands. I glanced at Baldy who looked as if cosh-swinging might be one of his specialties along with shooting, and he wasn’t too bad at that either. I stuck my hands out and Runty clamped on a pair of chrome-plated handcuffs. Stone end of the idea of opening the door and jumping or falling out—I couldn’t reach it in time manacled, and even if I could, the fall would be so clumsy I was likely to break my neck.
‘Where are we going?’
Baldy dug me in the ribs with the cosh, a leather-wrapped length of lead pipe or hardwood—it was difficult to tell and it really didn’t matter much.
‘Shut up,’ he said.
I leaned back against the seat. Might as well be comfortable. ‘Abduction’s a serious offence. Ten years I’d say. Make you an old man. You won’t have a hair on your head when you come out.’
He reached across and hit me on the left bicep. I moaned and he did it again.
‘Thought that might hit the spot. You’ve been carrying that shoulder I notice. Now I told you to shut up and I meant just that. Shut up!’
Convincing. We were on the highway now, heading back to the city
. My throat was marginally drier than my mouth—fear and anger combined. I had to admire the way they’d done it. Must have had a couple of cars on the job, patrolling the streets. Peaked Cap must have handed the Commodore over to someone else. Organisation. I looked at the other vehicles on the road—taxis, trucks, cars, motorcycles. Drivers and riders without a care in the world except mortgages, redundancy, kids, divorce proceedings, dodgy prostates. I’d have gladly taken on a few of their burdens. Baldy was humming tunelessly under his breath. Irritating, but I didn’t feel in a position to make him stop. I was hoping they’d produce a blindfold. A blindfold means they care about you knowing where they’re taking you. No blindfold means they don’t care, and that means ...
We were in North Sydney, approaching the bridge or the tunnel. I stared ahead, wondering. I was aware of a movement from Baldy and turned towards him. Slow, slow, slow. He was much quicker. The syringe glinted and the needle bit into my leg through my pants. He pinned me back with his big left arm and I heard him counting.
‘Ten, nine, eight, seven ...’
I had time to wonder whether a needle was the same as a blindfold. I knew it was better than a bullet. Then everything went black and my last thought was, Tunnel. But how was I to know?
Panic struck me as soon as I became conscious. I was lying on a trolley, a hospital-style gurney, tied down to it by straps that ran around my wrists and ankles. Thick webbing straps, and there was another across my chest and one across my legs just above the knees. The room was dark and smelled of antiseptic. Little chinks of light showed around a doorway. My mouth had been taped shut or I would have yelled my lungs out. I suppose the room was quiet, but there was so much throbbing and booming going on inside my head it was impossible to tell.