When Les reached the end of the cul-de-sac he couldn’t believe his eyes. The station wagon was gone. Yes, he beamed. There is a Santa Claus. Right. No time to fuck around. Les pulled up in front of the gum tree, grabbed his backpack and without bothering to lock the car, walked across to the front gate. He was about to open it when a movement to his left filled Norton’s stomach with ice and made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Two Rottweilers with thick black studded collars raced up to the other side of the gate and snarled at him with gleaming fangs and eyes full of menace. They didn’t carry on with a lot of barking or jumping up and down. However, Les knew as he watched the ridges of black hair bristling along their spines, they’d do exactly what they were told to do. Tear anyone to pieces that came through the gate. Les might have flattened one with the jemmy, but the other would have got him and he’d be minus a calf muscle and half his thigh.
‘Nice doggies,’ said Les, slowly backing away from the gate. ‘Nice doggies.’
Without moving, the two Rottweilers watched him get inside the car and drive off. By the time Les got to the old post office, his heart had stopped racing and he pulled over to have a think. Bloody hell! What about those two monsters. Another couple of steps and in two seconds I’d have been minute steak. I didn’t even think of that. Les banged a fist into his hand. Fuck it! All that waiting around for nothing. Angrily Les rubbed at his chin and glared out the windscreen. No. He was too close now. The two dogs weren’t going to stop him. Les swung the Berlina back over the bridge and headed for Katoomba.
The main street was busy with Thursday afternoon shoppers and there were cars everywhere. Les did two frustrating laps up and down looking for a parking spot before leaving the car unlocked in a driveway next to a bank. He had a quick look around then ran straight across the road into the butcher shop. There were four customers and two butchers serving; an older one going bald and a young one with fair hair and pimples. After a few minutes Les got the young one.
‘Yehmadewodillyav?’ the butcher asked in perfect strine.
‘Gizdoogillosachugstag,’ replied Les.
‘Rydo.’
‘Njobidubwillya,’ asked Les.
‘Nowurriesmade.’
The young butcher got two kilos of chuck steak from the window, chopped it up and put it in a plastic bag. Les paid him, thanked him and ran back to the car just as a black 4WD pulled up to enter the driveway. Before the woman driving had a chance to start blowing her horn, Les got behind the wheel and was on his way. He was back in Medlow Bath just as a long, freight train rumbled slowly through the station. Les drove straight back to the house and parked in the same place as before. He threw his backpack over his shoulder, opened up the plastic bag and walked across to the gate. Immediately the two Rottweilers rushed up to the other side looking meaner and more threatening than ever. Les decided to try a little animal psychiatry. He wasn’t sure who owned the two dogs, but they might recognise a name.
‘Albert,’ he said, slowly and clearly. ‘Where’s Albert?’ The two dogs looked at Les, cocked their ears up and tilted their heads to one side. ‘Yeah. Good boys,’ said Les. ‘Where’s Albert? Albert.’ The Rottweilers watched Les suspiciously as he opened the bag of chuck steak. Then they got a sniff and drool started pouring from their mouths like a tap had been turned on. Whoever was looking after the two dogs was probably just slinging them a can of Pal each and a few Meaty Bites. It had been a while since they’d seen choice lean beef. The two dogs gave a little whine and their tails started to wag. ‘Yeah. Albert,’ smiled Les. ‘Good boys. Good boys.’
Les tossed a handful of meat over the fence and eased the jemmy out of his back pack. The two dogs wolfed the meat down in seconds and looked up for more. Les threw the rest over the fence and slowly opened the gate. The two Rottweilers tore into the chuck steak ready to kill each other for it and totally ignored Les. Righto boys, smiled Les as he stepped inside and closed the gate behind him. Time for a different kind of animal psychiatry. He brought the jemmy up and belted the first Rottweiler across the forehead. It gave a grunt of pain, then went cross-eyed and fell face first into the chuck steak with its back legs twitching. Before the other Rottweiler even noticed, Les back handed the jemmy down across its neck. It gave a slight yelp and went down next to its mate with its eyes closed and its tongue lolling. The first Rottweiler looked like there might be a kick left in it. Les gave it another quick belt in the head and it went still. Just to be certain, Les gave the second Rottweiler one in the head as well. That was it. Les slipped the jemmy into his backpack then took the two dogs by their collars and quickly dragged them behind the house. There was a short set of steps leading up to the back door; Les took the steps two at a time and shoved the jemmy behind the lock. Two good wrenches and he was inside the house. He took a torch from his back pack and had a look around.
Norton found himself standing in a small verandah, the windows facing the backyard. An old grey chesterfield sat against the opposite wall, scattered with black cushions, and a tatty green rug covered the floor. Several abstract art posters hung on the walls and the running shelf held assorted bric a brac and thick candles. Les couldn’t see anything to get excited about. He moved the torch to a corridor leading inside and followed it.
There was a kitchen and bathroom on the right and two bedrooms on the left. The corridor ended at a lounge room then another room facing the street. The first bedroom had two deadlocks on it. Les left it for the time being and pushed the door to the second one open. It was fairly plain. A brass double bed, a wardrobe, a dressing table, dark curtains over the window and a few prints and rock posters on the wall, Les figured this room would belong to whoever shared the house. Les stepped to the end of the corridor and ran his torch over the lounge.
It was very dark; thick velvet drapes covered the windows, stopping most of the light. A dark blue lounge suite, covered in red and gold scatter cushions with gold tassles, sat on a red rug and faced an open fireplace in the corner. Against one wall was a TV, a stereo and a CD stacker. Around the remaining walls were strange-looking gothic posters and paintings plus a framed poster of Rosemary’s Baby. There were gold stars and pentangles painted on the walls, bric a brac and candles along the running shelf and a candleholder made from a skull sat on a coffee table. Hanging over the fireplace was a double-handed sword and sitting on a small shelf above it was a copper chalice. Hanging on the wall above the chalice was a framed tapestry containing the words:
Drink from the cup of the Wine of Life,
which is the Cauldron of Cerridwen,
and the Holy Grail of Immortality.
Fill it full of cold Fourex and you’ve got me, thought Les. Despite his flippancy, the lounge room gave Les the creeps. He stepped through and opened the door to the front room.
There was a little more light and the first thing Les noticed was a chef’s hat lying across a wooden chair. Yeah, this is Knox’s room, thought Les. If I owned the house it’d be mine. The bedroom was almost twice as big as the other one. A four-poster bed sat against the windows facing the street, the wardrobe was bigger and the dressing table had a full-length mirror. There was a stack of cookbooks on a small table, more gothic posters on the walls and more fat candles in holders round the running shelf along with several incense burners. Amongst the posters was another framed tapestry with a cryptic little poem.
I do not like thee, Dr Fell,
the reason why, I cannot tell.
There’s only one thing I know well
I do not like thee, Dr Fell.
So much for Dr Fell thought Les. I wonder if he bulk bills? On the wall near the tapestry were some framed photos. Les ran the torch over them. A couple were of Knox standing outside the house. Another was Knox with the two Rottweilers. Next to that was Knox and Brett Rittosa wearing chef’s uniforms in a restaurant called The Moondance Diner. The last photo was of four men, taken from the knees up, standing in front of an old boat — a half-cabin, wooden clinker. There were three po
rtholes along the cabin and on the bow was written Trough Queen. It was moored at the edge of a park, next to a sign saying Victor Harbor and in the distance was a rocky island with a jetty running out to it. Three of the men were wearing T-shirts with Victor Harbor Sea Scouts on the front, the fourth man had Trough Queen printed on his. The man wearing a sea scout’s T-shirt on the left was Albert Knox. The others were all wearing floppy white captain’s hats and sunglasses and Les couldn’t recognise any of them.
The only standout feature was two had big noses and another was smoking what looked like a joint. They weren’t quite facing the camera full on, but all four men seemed to be cracking up at some private joke. Les shone his torch over the photo. I’d say they’re the crew of that boat. One of them’s the skipper. And Knox and the other two are wearing sea scout T-shirts for a joke. I wonder if they’ve been using the Trough Queen for a bit of dope smuggling? From what I know about Albert Knox, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. Find those other blokes in the photo with him and you never know what might turn up. This could be what I’m looking for. Les took the photo from the wall and put it in his back pack. He flashed his torch around the dead man’s room again, had a quick look in his wardrobe and left it at that. Les didn’t want to be in the house any longer than he had to. Apart from whoever was living there coming back, the house had a weird feel about it. It belonged in a Stephen King movie. Les stepped back into the lounge room then walked down to the room with the locks on the door. He got the jemmy from his back pack and shoved it in the jamb. The noise in the empty wooden house was horrendous, but three good wrenches and the door was open.
Les gave it a push and walked straight in on a well-organised hydroponic operation. Twenty healthy marijuana plants were growing in tanks placed neatly under Gro-Lights hanging from the ceiling. Each plant was over a metre high and they were all starting to head. Les gave the operation a grudging nod of approval. Very nice boys. There should be a few dollars’ worth there. Les, however, wasn’t in the least bit concerned about the late cook and his cohorts’ indoor drug plantation. He stepped out the back door and closed it behind him. The two Rottweilers were still lying where he left them. Les took the steps two at a time again, got in his car and drove back to the hotel.
The first thing Les did was try to ring Gerry again. The number was still engaged. He changed into a clean blue T-shirt then got the photo out of his back pack and studied it. After finding the hydroponic set up in the house, Les was now convinced drugs were behind all this and Knox and other men in the photo were dope dealers. They’d just pulled off a shipment and that’s why they were all laughing and clowning around. And Knox was laughing loudest because he’d ripped the others off. They found out and arranged his murder. Find the men in the photo and you could bet you’d find the killer. Or killers. But where the fuck was Victor Harbor? Les had never heard of it. He placed the photo on the bed then walked down to reception and asked for a booklet of post codes. It didn’t take long to find Victor Harbor was in South Australia. But whereabouts in South Australia? Les returned the booklet and strolled back to his room. There was one way to find out. They’d have to have a Victor Harbor Motel or something. Les rang Telstra. They found him a Victor Harbor, Ezy Rest Motel. Les wrote the number down then picked up the phone.
‘Hello Ezy Rest Motel. How can I help you?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘Yes. Have you any vacancies?’ asked Les.
‘How many people?’
‘Ahh … two.’
‘No problem. When did you want them?’
‘On the weekend. Look, we’re new to South Australia,’ said Les. ‘How far are you from say … Adelaide?’
‘Eighty-five kilometres, if you come via Mount Compass.’
‘Thanks. I’ll see you when we get there.’
Les hung up and looked at the photo again. Eighty-five kilometres from Adelaide. This bloody Adelaide connection kept cropping up all the time. Knox, King, David. Simone Mitchum. The men in the photo. Yeah, but that’s South Australia. This is New South Wales. It’s a long way away. Even if this Victor Harbor is just a short drive from Adelaide.
‘Ohh shit!’ Les sat up on the edge of the bed. ‘Oh fuckin hell!’
Talk about short drives. What about a short drive to Sydney? And report in to the police? Les had forgotten all about it. He looked at his watch. There was no way in the world he could get there on time now. And what did those two cops say? If he was one minute late they’d arrest him. If he couldn’t report in, don’t bother ringing up, they’d come looking for him, with the rest of the NSW police force, and shooting him on sight would be a pleasure. What did Tait say? We’re filthy on having to watch you walk out of here. They meant every word. They’d had pressure put on them in the middle of an arrest and they didn’t like it.
‘Shit! Fuck! Fuck it!’ Les punched the bed, almost dislodging the mattress.
He felt a film of sweat form on his brow. Les wasn’t starting to panic, but there was a cold surge in the pit of his stomach. Things had suddenly changed. For the worse. He’d breached his bail conditions and now he was a fugitive. He could be arrested on sight. And after what he was supposed to have done, you could bet the cops would be looking for him everywhere. What about when Nathan David found out? He’d have a bulletin on him every half-hour. Have you seen this man? What are the police doing about it? How did he get bail in the first place? Les fell back on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. What should he do? Ring Eddie? No. With everyone running around for him, Eddie would think he was a complete dill breaking his bail conditions. Ring Price? After all the trouble Price went to, to get him bail, he’d probably tell Eddie to shoot him. Les cursed and banged at the bed. Then he settled down. No. It was time to do his own thing. He’d been listening to people all his life and got dumped on, and if he hadn’t listened to Eddie and his silly fuckin ideas, he wouldn’t be in all this shit in the first place. Les stared at the photo on the bed and felt he’d found something to go on. Not much. But it was better than hanging around Bondi. Or Sydney. Les absently looked at his watch and picked up the phone again.
‘Hello,’ came a familiar man’s voice. ‘Travelabout Clovelly. Gary Blair speaking.’
‘Hello Gary. It’s Les Norton.’
‘Les. How are you? I’d thought you’d be … well I don’t know where I thought you’d be, to be honest.’
‘I’m in the Blue Mountains.’
Gary was the team’s travel agent. He was a good style of a bloke and a snappy dresser and always with a twinkle in his eye. Like Gerry the accountant, Gary could cut corners and didn’t ask too many questions.
‘So Les. What can I do for you?’ asked Gary.
‘Gary, I need a ticket to Adelaide. Leave tomorrow. Come back Sunday night. A cargo plane. A room at the Y. Anything. I don’t give a fuck.’
Gary chuckled over the line. ‘Les, you’re not going to believe this. I’ve just had a bloke, some company director, pull out of a trip I had organised. I’m out a bit of time and money ringing Adelaide and that. But it’s yours if you want it.’
‘I’ll take it,’ said Les. ‘Even if it’s in the back of a Hercules.’
‘It’s not in the back of a Hercules,’ said Gary. ‘It’s a package.’
‘A what?’
‘A package. You fly business class. You got Golden Wing. A driver’s waiting for you at the airport. You stay in a Regency Suite at the Adelaide Grande. And there’s a car booked for Saturday and Sunday if you want it. A Hyundai Grandeur.’
‘Shit!’
‘The plane leaves at twelve fifty-five tomorrow. The driver picks you up again at the hotel, five-thirty Sunday. And you fly out at seven. How’s that sound?’
‘Unreal.’
‘You can pick the tickets up on the way to the airport tomorrow. When you get there, say your name’s Conrad Ullrich.’
‘I’ll tart my hair up and say I’m Kylie Minogue, Gary, I don’t give a fuck. How much do I owe you?’
‘Ohh
for you, Les,’ Gary pressed the buttons on a calculator. ‘Two grand. You’ll have to pay for the car down there. And your meals. But you get a free continental breakfast in the Regency Club. All right?’
‘I’ve got my credit card right here, Gary,’ said Les.
Norton couldn’t believe it. Some luck at last. He might be going down, but at least he was going down in style. He gave Gary his credit card details, got a few more details himself, and that was it. All he had to do now was get back to Bondi, get his gear, pick up the tickets, hope the cops weren’t waiting for him and he was on his way to Adelaide. It might turn out to be a wild goose chase, but if he did find out who those other men in the photo were, at least it was something to offer Tait and Caccano before they flung him in the nick. What did he have to lose? Especially now. Norton’s eyes flicked back to the phone. He still had to ring Gerry. This time the line was open.
‘Hello Gerry. It’s Les Norton.’
‘Hello Les,’ replied Norton’s accountant. ‘How are you?’
‘Good Gerry. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t ring you yesterday. I honestly forgot. I’m in the Blue Mountains and I’ve been trying to ring you all day.’
‘That’s all right. I’ve been super busy. And we’ve had trouble with the phones and the computers all day. But I spoke to Ivor for you.’
‘You did? What did he say?’
‘There is another insurance policy on that movie. Max King took it out through his company, King Productions. With one other beneficiary: Simone Mitchum.’
Leaving Bondi Page 10