by Garry Disher
A series of expressions passed across Thomas’s face- guilt, apprehension, resignation. He’s been bought, Wyatt thought. The Mesics must have sweetened the passage of their planning approval with a few hundred dollars here and there. ‘Do you know the place I mean?’
‘I think so. Everything was in order concerning that application.’
‘Oh, I’m not doubting you,’ Wyatt said. ‘It’s the system that’s at fault.’
Thomas nodded, unable to conceal his relief.
‘However,’ Wyatt went on, ‘I do have rights. I would like something to be done.’
‘It’ll mean a lot of paperwork. You’ll have to have all the facts right. I’m afraid I’m not in a position to do that for you.’
Wyatt took out his wallet. He drew out fifty dollars of Kepler’s money and rested his hand on it on the counter top. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘If I could have a few minutes with the plans lodged for the place in question, I could make a note of all relevant details.’ As he spoke he used his forefinger to push the money across the counter a millimetre at a time. ‘Folio numbers, dimensions, things like that.’
Thomas’s hand snatched up the fifty. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
He returned ten minutes later with a bundle of folders and blueprints. ‘There’s a table in the next room you can use. I’d be grateful if you didn’t-’
He paused. Wyatt finished for him: ‘Mention this to anyone? No problem.’ He gave the man a further twenty. ‘And you won’t mention I’ve been here.’
Wyatt left half an hour later. He knew the dimensions of the compound fence and the position of everything inside it, and he had floor plans of the two houses. He’d made fair hand-drawn copies, showing doors, windows, staircases, distances. He noted the position of the fuse boxes, gas and water mains, underground power and phone cables. When the time came he’d be able to walk through the Mesic compound with his eyes closed.
Once he’d found a way in, that is.
****
Thirty
On Wednesday afternoon Rossiter delivered boltcutters, plastic explosive and radios. When he was gone, Wyatt examined the boltcutters. They were Taiwanese, cheaply made and too small. ‘We’re going shopping,’ he said. He didn’t want their faces to be remembered by some clerk in a hardware store, so he said to Jardine, ‘We’ll try pawnbrokers.’ Wyatt felt strangely allied to pawnbrokers. Pawnbrokers were always being hassled by cops with stolen goods lists. ‘Smith Street,’ he said, and he let Jardine drive one of the two rental cars they were using.
They drove in silence. Then, in a bottleneck in Clifton Hill, where men in hardhats were ripping up the tramtracks, Jardine said, ‘The Mesic woman’s having it off with some geezer.’
Wyatt looked at him.
‘Lunchtime yesterday, again today.’
‘Where? Her place?’
Jardine shook his head. ‘I decided to follow her. She met him on the edge of the city, they got in her car, and they drove to a flat in South Yarra.’ He fished a scrap of paper from his pocket. ‘Here’s the address.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Tallish, wears a suit or classy casual clothes, but somehow he doesn’t look corporate, if you know what I mean. Very wary, kept looking around when he got into her car and went into the flat. Drives a red sports car, don’t ask me what kind.’
‘I’ve seen him,’ Wyatt said. ‘I think he used to visit her at home. Something’s made them more careful.’
In Collingwood Jardine parked outside a Vietnamese grocery. Wyatt fed the meter and jerked his head at Jardine to follow him. There had always been dusty furniture shops, Greek coffee bars, op shops, fabric discounters and seconds clothing shops along Smith Street, but the recession had brought in pawnshops as well, though not all of them called themselves that.
The first pawnshop had a security grille bolted to the windows. Poster paint on the glass said, ‘Cash for everything.’ They went in.
A man was reading a book behind the counter, sucking the ends of his moustache into his mouth as he concentrated. He saw them come in, threw the book down and beamed. ‘Help you, gentlemen?’
‘I need a heavy-duty boltcutter,’ Wyatt said.
‘Boltcutters, boltcutters,’ the man said. ‘Let’s see.’ He peered into the glass cabinets that lined three sides of the shop. From one of them he drew out a small hand implement. ‘Got a good pair of tinsnips.’
Wyatt said, ‘Come on,’ and led Jardine out of the shop. Behind them the man called, ‘Try us next week.’
A sour-looking husband and wife team ran the second pawnshop. They watched Wyatt and Jardine without expression and seemed to miss nothing. They had heard a lot of hard luck stories in their time and clearly they expected to hear another one today.
‘I need a heavy boltcutter,’ Wyatt said.
There was no response from the woman. Her husband expelled air through his nostrils. It might have been laughter, it might have been cynicism. ‘I bet you do,’ he said.
Wyatt waited.
Eventually the man said, ‘Can’t help you.’
They went into a third pawnshop. There Wyatt didn’t have to ask for a boltcutter. One about a metre long was gathering dust among tangled radio parts and tape recorder spools in a display case. He paid the asking price, thirty-five dollars, and left the shop.
Jardine fell into step with him. ‘Togs next?’
Wyatt looked at his watch. ‘It’s five-fifty. We’ve got ten minutes.’
The Sgro Clothing Emporium sold cheap acrylic and cotton clothing-jeans, dresses, T-shirts, tracksuits-as well as sheets and pillowcases. Wind gusted into the shop, stirring the plastic earrings and hairbands on the display stands next to the cash registers. Exposed pipes ridged the walls and ceiling. The linoleum floor was torn and buckled. A small, elderly man smiled at them from the shadows. He had a tape measure around his neck. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, flapping his hands at them. ‘You look, you see something you like.’
The two men selected black jeans, T-shirts and windcheaters, trying them on in the changing rooms. The proprietor said nothing about their choice. He treated them as if they were the first customers he’d ever had. He wrapped the clothing in brown paper, stuck the flaps down carefully, tried string around each parcel, finished with a plaited loop. Wyatt watched him, feeling again that he was unconnected to the world in fundamental ways. He didn’t even know how to say thanks or express pleasure and surprise to the old proprietor. He let Jardine do that.
It was not much past six o’clock and the sky was darkening. They bought takeaway hamburgers, ate them in the car, then Wyatt threaded the car through to Hoddle Street and onto the freeway. By seven o’clock they were parked at the rear of the Mesic compound.
They didn’t speak. There was nothing to say. Jardine had brought two pairs of infra-red night binoculars with him from Sydney and each man settled back in his seat and watched the grounds and the two squat houses.
‘If we cut the wire we run the risk of being spotted by neighbours, the alarms will go off, the Mesics will meet us with guns blazing,’ Wyatt said.
‘How about we blow the fence and drive through? It will be quick, scary-’
‘And attract the attention of the cops as well as the Mesics.’
They fell silent, thinking through all the angles. Wyatt felt swamped with tiredness. This was a new sensation for him, a glimpse of life’s useless shunting, loose ends and wasted effort. The waiting, the problem solving, were tedious, and he hadn’t felt like that about a job before. Somehow he couldn’t shut down today, couldn’t step outside of himself until the job was over and the money was in his pocket. He looked at the security fence, the ugly twin houses, and felt that for the past few months he’d been marking time while the money stayed a jump ahead of him. The city itself seemed fatigued by his existence in it. It was as if he’d never pulled a swift, clean hit and never would. He was trapped in an endless job that was not his and carried no reward. ‘Christ,’ he said, low and bitt
er.
Jardine put down the glasses. He seemed to know what was going on in Wyatt’s head. ‘Final stage, old son.’
Wyatt said, letting the venom show, ‘Once this is over, I’m staying clear of mobs, amateurs, and jobs with question marks over them.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ Jardine said. ‘But we’re hitting them tomorrow night and the problem still remains, how do we go in?’
Wyatt said nothing. Jardine put the glasses to his face, observed, said, ‘Here he comes again, regular as clockwork.’
‘Who?’
‘Victor. Back from the gym.’
The skin tingled along Wyatt’s forearms. He’d been slumped in the seat but now he sat upright. ‘This gym,’ he said, ‘doesn’t have a nice dark car park, by any chance?’
****
Thirty-one
The Mesic woman had suggested to Napper that she hand him the ten thousand bucks in the family compound in Templestowe, but Napper had told her, ‘No way.’ He’d been there once, and once was enough. What if the Feds or the CIB had the Mesics under surveillance? They’d have his picture by now, plus the registration of his ute. Just in case, he’d constructed a story to cover himself, half based on fact, about following a lead in his own time concerning a kid he’d arrested for spraypainting used cars in a yard owned by the Mesics back in Richmond. He’d be pushing his luck trying to justify a second visit to the Mesics in his own time. Not even a constable fresh out of the academy would believe that.
So, he’d suggested his place, maybe get in a bit of mattress time with Stella Mesic, but she’d laughed in his face. ‘Me in a cop’s house? No way.’
So they settled on somewhere neutral, the car park next to the boathouse on the river in Fairfield. The Infectious Diseases Hospital was close by. Napper pictured invisible organisms floating in the air, hooking themselves to his lungs, showing up as ulcers and cancers on his dick five years, ten years down the track. He parked the ute and waited, windows wound up, watching the flowing waters, the avaricious mutating ducks, the hospital just breathing distance away.
5.15 Wednesday afternoon and Stella Mesic was late. Maybe she’d been caught in traffic. Cyclists and joggers skirted the edge of the car park. There were other vehicles there, cars, a couple of vans, but everyone seemed to be interested in his ute for some reason, he saw their grins in the rear view mirror as they approached from behind. Sure the ute was old and rough, and the exhaust pipe showed through a hole in the floor, but it wasn’t so bad that you’d want to laugh about it. He shrugged, found some drive-time music on the radio, watched a yuppie towel off sweat and get into his Porsche and drive off. He snorted. Last night Tina had told him the one about the difference between a Porsche and a cactus, how with a Porsche the pricks are on the inside.
5.20. A big XJ6 slid into the car park, Stella Mesic at the wheel. Napper watched for a while. She was alone. No one followed her in. He got out, crunched across the gravel, opened the passenger door and enveloped himself in soft leather.
She didn’t smile, say hello, or look aggrieved, just gave him a formal nod. Napper could smell perfume, something discreet and expensive. Then the Mesic woman twisted her body in the seat until she was facing him. He heard the slide of silk along her thighs.
She said lightly, ‘Well, Sergeant Napper, Fairfield boathouse car park, 5 pm Wednesday, sorry I’m a bit late.’
‘No worries.’
He waited, but she failed to speak again, so he said, feeling awkward about it, ‘Did you bring the money?’
‘I want to be clear about this. You told my husband and me that armed men intend to hit the Mesics soon. You said if we paid you ten thousand dollars, you’d give us the full details, is that correct?’
She was going to play games with him, and Napper didn’t like it. ‘That’s what I said. Are you trying to wriggle out of it now? Fine. Suit yourself. I’m not the one who has to wait around to be attacked, wondering when, wondering who, wondering the best way to stop it happening. If you want that kind of grief, that’s your business.’
She seemed to think about it, frowning now, looking uncertain. She began to touch herself, something Napper had seen her do before. He pressed on, sensing his advantage. ‘If, on the other hand, you want to protect yourself against these hoods, and if you want someone on the force who can do you some good now and then, well, I’d say that was worth ten thousand bucks, wouldn’t you? Another way of looking at it, if I was in your position I wouldn’t like knowing I had a cop as an enemy, causing all sorts of grief for me all the time, kind of thing, just because I’d reneged on a deal.’
Stella Mesic looked rueful and nodded, taking his point. ‘I just wanted to be clear, that’s all. I’m scared, I admit it. The thought of armed men coming into the house scares me. You scare me.’
She swallowed, her eyes wide with what he might do to her, and it stirred in Napper’s groin. His hand crept out, found her knee, the minute gridweave of her stocking. ‘I won’t hurt you so long as you don’t cross me,’ he said. His chunky fingers tightened, her face went white. ‘Cross me, I’ll ruin your day.’
She was breathless. ‘I understand.’
Napper released his grip, gave her leg a quick slide and pat a short distance under her skirt. ‘See? Simple. Now, did you bring the money?’
‘I did.’
She was wearing a waist-length black suede jacket, padded as if she’d strapped a fence post across her shoulders. She reached inside it, brought out an envelope, tossed it in his lap.
The money was in hundreds, so it wasn’t long before he looked up at her and said, ‘There’s only two and a half thousand here. That won’t buy you shit. You’re short seven and a half thousand grand.’
She was hard and sharp, her thick hair tossing. ‘How do I know this isn’t some scam you’re pulling? After all, you haven’t told us anything new. We know the firm is vulnerable at the moment. We know different people have been thinking of hitting us.’
Napper blinked. ‘You do?’
‘So that’s why at this stage you only get two and a half thousand. That’s all your information is worth. Give us a name, a date, the time and method, and you’ll get your seven and a half.’
Napper had more or less expected this anyway, so he said, ‘Fair enough.’
‘Names first.’
‘Wyatt and Jardine, no first names. The one to worry about is Wyatt, but they’re both pros, both hard, never been arrested.’
‘Are they violent?’
‘Depends on how brave you’re feeling. What they’ll do is tie everyone up, rob the place, and disappear. If you give them a hard time, they’ll bang you around a bit. If you pull a gun on them, they’ll kill you.’
‘When do they intend to do it?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow? Doesn’t give us much time. When tomorrow?’
‘They’re not likely to go in during daylight hours. It’ll be some time in the evening.’
‘How do you know all this, Napper? Have you worked with them before, set jobs up for them?’
Napper was affronted. ‘You get that sort of thing happening up in Sydney, not here. No, I got a contact.’
‘Can I speak to this contact?’
‘No way. A good cop protects his sources, you know that.’
‘One thing puzzles me,’ Stella said, getting comfortable in the driver’s seat, giving him a flash of inside upper leg. ‘You say they’re going to rob us, yet I keep hearing whispers about rival firms who want to take us over, steal our records. So, are you sure that robbery is all they’ve got in mind?’
‘All I know is what I’ve told you,’ Napper said. ‘These boys are not mob, they work alone, they don’t want to be businessmen. Now, how about the other seven and a half?’
He saw Stella Mesic reach forward and do something with the array of switches on the dash. What happened then told Napper that he could wave goodbye to the seven and a half. The rear doors of a nearby van opened and the woman’s husband st
epped out, a video camera in his fist, a Nikon fitted with a telephoto lens around his neck. He looked big and fit and sure of himself.
Stella said, ‘Napper? Look at me.’
Napper looked. She was waving a microrecorder at him. ‘You’re on tape, Sergeant. Sure, you can make things hard for us, but think of the grief we can cause you. Derryn Hinch, Truth, not to mention the cops whose job it is to investigate other cops. I know who’s going to come off worse. The thing is, you’ve got nothing to offer us. You’re strictly small time.’
‘Fucking slag,’ Napper said.
Stella Mesic turned the ignition key. ‘Well, I won’t keep you. The two and a half thousand is yours, by the way. Fair’s fair.’
Fair’s fair. Napper got out of the Jaguar. He got into his ute and started it. Fair’s fair. He inched into the peak-hour traffic on Heidelberg Road and the words kept repeating themselves. Fair’s fair. He felt dazed. Everything had turned around on him and he hadn’t been ready for it.
The traffic was worse on Hoddle Street, bumper to bumper. Napper rode the clutch. He was low on fuel. Trouble was, the gauge was broken and he was in an inside lane. Heat shimmers disturbed the oily atmosphere outside, and hot air, smoky from the exhaust pipe, reached him from the hole in the floor. The cars in his lane were stalled for some reason. The other lanes moved, but his didn’t. There was a wog car next to him, all thick duco, chrome and full-volume stereo. Napper longed to turn the wheel hard, knock the little shit into a bus.
The thing was, people seemed to be looking at him. The wog car crept past, then a Silver Top cab, a furniture van, two or three of your average family rustbuckets, a couple of flat-faced Asians in a brand-new Volvo, all those faces peering at him in the ute, a suggestion of a snigger on their faces.
He wound down his window, leaned out and waved his fist at an elderly woman in the back seat of a taxi. ‘What are you staring at, you old slag?’