Faces in the Rain

by Roland Perry

  Along with Cassie, Walters had been Martine’s doctor in Melbourne. Unwittingly, she had ended up being treated by the man from whom she had been hiding. Walters had known how to get into Cassie’s study and probably how to access her computer, because he had watched her processing incoming research data the night I nearly ran into him at her place.

  Michel and Walters seemed the right height and weight, although the face was markedly different.

  ‘It’s amazing to think the Frog could have been turned into such a prince,’ I said.

  ‘A sharper thinner nose, honed cheek bones, a change of hair and eye colour,’ Farrar said, ‘the surgeon was bloody good.’

  ‘There’s hope for us yet,’ I said. It hurt Farrar to laugh. He tried to put his gun back in its arm holster below the wound, but couldn’t. He swore, threw the gun on the rear seat, and tried to adjust the towel bandage. It had turned red.

  I deposited Farrar at the city’s St Vincent’s hospital emergency ward at two a.m. The wound was more severe than he had thought and he had lost too much blood to be comfortable. He urged me to stay with him until he had phoned Benns at his private number. Farrar went to great lengths to explain that Peter Walters was Claude Michel, but as the Inspector knew little about Michel and even less about Walters, he was unconvinced. He said he would come and see Farrar at seven thirty a.m. on the way to work. Our fear that Cassie was in danger was lost on him, although he did react when we insisted Danielle Mernet was travelling with them. But it wasn’t enough to get him out of bed. So the director of a cancer research institute takes off with his key researcher. So what? They were lovers. It was a free country.

  Farrar neglected to mention that Cochard’s carcass was lying under a tarpaulin in the back yard of a Somers house. We both knew that this would have had Benns out of the cot for the wrong reasons. There had been a murder. Homicide would go to Somers and spend the night doing forensic fiddles while Walters burned rubber all the way to Sydney.

  Farrar said he would explain all that to Benns over breakfast.

  ‘Don’t you be a dickhead and try to follow them!’ were Farrar’s parting words for me. I looked at a clock on the wall in his cubicle in the emergency ward. It was nearly three.

  ‘Fat chance,’ I said, ‘they’d be well over the border by now.’

  ‘What was he driving?’

  ‘A late-model Porsche coupe.’

  ‘They’d be at flamin’ Gundagai, I reckon,’ he said, as a nurse came in to see why I was still there. ‘I saw his car go past when I was comin’ to Somers. He had to be doing 150 ks. Driving like a bat outa hell.’

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ I said.

  ‘I’ll ring you in the morning,’ Farrar said, ‘just to make sure.’

  As I walked out of the lift in the hospital foyer, an ambulance pulled into an entry bay, siren blaring and lights flashing. Orderlies lowered a woman onto a trolley and made a dash for the elevator. She had a drip feed attached to an arm and an oxygen mask to her face.

  A sharp pain slashed my chest as I recognised the dark, luxuriant hair and a casual brown blouson jacket that was draped over the victim’s torso.

  It was Cassie’s hair and Cassie’s jacket.

  Five orderlies, a doctor and two nurses crowded round her. A doctor began heart massage as the lift took its time. The woman was going to die. I tried to get closer. A nurse pushed me away.

  ‘Please sir!!’ she said.

  ‘What happened?!’ I yelled.

  ‘Hit and run,’ an orderly said.

  The lift opened. The trolley was wheeled in. I caught a glimpse of the snow-white face with red lips.

  ‘Cassie!!’ I called as the lift door closed. I leant against the wall.

  It hadn’t been her.

  I hurried to the Rolls parked at the front of the hospital. The handgun – a Smith & Wesson with three bullets was sitting on the back seat. Farrar had forgotten it.

  I drove south along Victoria Parade heading for Toorak, but I couldn’t get the thought of that injured young woman and Cassie out of my mind. As much as I told myself there was nothing I could do, I was haunted by the thought that Cassie would be killed. Logic dictated that Michel/Walters would kill her. Before tonight, he had to silence two people so he could return to France and practise medicine at Meudon as Peter Walters. He would assume that Cochard had murdered me as instructed, so at some point he and Danielle would get rid of Cassie. They had to. Otherwise we would tell the story of Walters’ double life and he would be wanted for murder in Australia and France, assuming that authorities there were serious about apprehending him.

  The coward in me kept justifying not trying to find her. Leave it to the police tomorrow. Tomorrow, with Farrar’s help, the situation could be explained. They would have to hunt for them. The police in New South Wales could be alerted and Walters and Danielle would be rounded up, possibly within twenty hours.

  But Cassie could also be dead.

  Like that hit-and-run victim.

  The Rolls did a U-turn against my better, more prudent judgement and made for the Sydney road out of Melbourne. The speedometer reached 150 k and it didn’t bother me if I got booked or not. If the police chased me, I would try to enlist their help. Somewhere between Melbourne and Sydney, probably on the 480 k from Melbourne to the border, was a farm-house where Walters, Danielle and Cassie would be resting and waiting for Cochard. There had to be a thousand such places.

  I sped along past the ugly billboards of the Sydney Road proclaiming used car yards and more used car yards, and held the map over the steering wheel. It was futile even making a guess.

  I pulled in for petrol at the first all-nighter on the way and asked the bearded youth behind the counter if he had seen a red Porsche. He gave me a vacant stare and shook his head.

  Ten stops and a dozen shaken heads and blank looks later I had just about given up. The car yards, all-nighters and petrol stations would soon give way to countryside, which on any other drive would have been a delight. This time it was worrying. It seemed futile to drive on.

  The food smells in the all-nighters were making me hungry, so I tried once more at a Hungry Jack’s about 50 k from Melbourne and bought a burger with the lot from a fat woman who seemed more alert than the others I had asked. So alert in fact that she called her companion named Bill, who eyed me when I repeated the question about a red Porsche. He was tall, lean and with friendly crinkled eyes. He reminded me of Chips Rafferty, especially the way he rolled a cigarette and took an eternity to speak.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bill said, ‘I seen ’em. A handsome fella with two pretty good-lookin’ sheilas. They stopped for food.’ He jerked his thumb at the woman, who was chewing hard. ‘Shirl served ‘em.’

  ‘You didn’t know where they were headed?’ I said, opening the burger packet and munching into it.

  ‘Sydney,’ Shirl said. She seemed wary of me. It was the swollen cheekbone and half-closed black-and-blue eye. They were not a pretty sight.

  ‘How do you know?’ I said.

  ‘One of the women wanted to phone Sydney,’ Shirl said with a upward inflexion, ‘she was pissed off ‘cause the phones are out of order.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bill said, warming up, ‘the guy – real smooth bastard he was – said he was a bigshot doctor and wanted to call Melbourne.’ He looked at Shirl for support.

  ‘Somers,’ she said.

  ‘Right,’ Bill said, ‘we let him use our private line, but there was nobody at the number he wanted. So then the foreign sheila . . .’

  ‘French?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Aw, you know . . .’

  ‘Tall?’

  ‘Nar. Good figure. You know. Big mouth . . .’

  ‘Nice clothes,’ Shirl said, her inflexion still heavenward.

  ‘And the other woman?’ I asked.

  ‘Stayed in the car,’ Bill said, ‘well, most of the time. Think she went to the dunoy at one point. Anyway, the forei
gn sheila wanted to ring Sydney. She got through.’

  ‘I heard her say they’d be in round three or four tomorrow afternoon,’ Shirl said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ Bill agreed.

  ‘They didn’t say where they’d stay the night?’ I asked.

  ‘Nar,’ Bill said with another glance at Shirl, ‘they were drivin’ right through, I’d say.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’d reckon. They took drinks with ‘em.’

  ‘If they drove right through, they’d be in Sydney before noon,’ I suggested.

  ‘Dunno,’ Bill said with dismissive pride, ‘I’ve never been over the border.’

  I thanked them and began to walk away.

  ‘Friends of yours, are they?’ Bill said.

  ‘One of them is, why?’

  ‘Aw, I dunno,’ he said nodding towards the Rolls, ‘both drivin’ nice cars, you know.’

  ‘Which one was your friend?’ Shirl asked, with a legitimate inflexion.

  ‘The one who stayed in the car.’

  ‘She wasn’t too bloody popular with the others,’ Bill said.

  I turned and faced Shirl, hoping for more.

  ‘I filled the tank for them,’ she said, ‘and I was cleaning the windows, see, and the one in the back used a finger to write something on the windscreen. You know, it was misty.’

  ‘What did she write?’

  ‘Rams av.’

  ‘Rams Have? Have what?’

  ‘Nar. Rams Av– “A”, “V”, like in “Avenue”.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The foreign woman jumped in the car and gave the other one a good talking to. She belted her one.’

  ‘Did you say anything?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with me.’

  I drove on, gunning the Rolls up to 180 k and taking risks passing trucks, that kept coming into view like sinister alien forces with their abundant coloured lights. They didn’t like being overtaken, even in one-way traffic.

  If Walters planned to be in Sydney as late as three or four in the afternoon, he was still going to make a stop. At Rams av.

  I put the internal light on and placed the map over the steering wheel again. Was Rams av an obscure country town? I hadn’t heard of it and I had done this trip thirty times by car. Perhaps it was Rams avenue? A street in a town. But which one!!??

  I pushed the map onto the passenger seat and slammed my foot right down. Lights were flashing ahead.

  A police car was by the side of the road and a policeman was standing in front, flagging me down. I hit the horn and swerved past him. The police car gave chase and I blasted my horn again to indicate an emergency dash. It didn’t stop the police car.

  Another police vehicle coming in the other direction was skidding into a turn to give chase. Two on my tail now. I kept going and thought they had given up as the 100 k from Melbourne sign whizzed by. But no. Flashing lights could be seen in the blackness behind me as the Rolls got caught behind two juggernauts taking up both lanes on a steep hill.

  One of the police cars was gaining.

  I slowed down and stopped in a parking bay. At the last second I spotted the Smith & Wesson on the back seat and hurled it under the Rolls as the police vehicle pulled up.

  I got out. Two policemen emerged. One was about fifty with a pot belly. The other was half his age and fit-looking.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ the older cop said.

  ‘I’m chasing a murderer,’ I began.

  ‘What?’

  ‘A guy in a red Porsche.’

  ‘Porsche? We picked up a doctor in a red Porsche only a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘He’s a killer on the run.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘A killer on the run, I tell you!’

  ‘I know you,’ the younger cop said, ‘you’re Duncan Hamilton.’

  ‘Look, I’m serious. Where was that red Porsche headed?’

  ‘Sydney,’ the younger cop replied.

  ‘Just let’s get you booked!’ the older cop said.

  ‘You’ve got to stop that Porsche!’ I said.

  ‘We already did. What’s your address?’

  ‘He’s got a hostage in the back seat.’

  ‘Bullshit! We saw them. Your address?’

  I gave it and looked at the younger cop. There was a flicker of doubt.

  ‘They did act funny, Ted,’ he said.

  ‘Whaddaya mean?’ Ted said, looking at the younger one as if he had acted traitorously.

  ‘They didn’t want an escort.’

  ‘Examine the car, will ya?’ Ted ordered.

  The younger cop fossicked round in the Rolls.

  ‘Give me the damned ticket!’ I said.

  Ted tore off the ticket and handed it to me.

  ‘Drive on like you did,’ he said, ‘and I’ll impound the car.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth,’ I said, ‘I need your help in going after him!’

  ‘Don’t waste our time!’ Ted snapped, ‘that man was who he said he was. He showed me ID.’

  ‘Have you got anything to report?’ the younger cop said.

  ‘A kidnapping.’

  ‘For Chrissakes, Roy!’ Ted said, ‘give it a rest. You’ve heard them all, haven’t you? Don’t be a sucker.’

  ‘Can I report it then?’ I said, opening my arms.

  ‘You’ll have to go back to the station,’ Ted said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Sixty kilometres back towards Melbourne.’

  ‘You don’t understand. The hostage in that car may be murdered by Walters!’

  ‘His name was Walters, Ted,’ Roy said.

  ‘So bloody what?’ Ted said. ‘He was Doctor Walters.’

  I looked at the car clock. It was four thirty a.m. I got back in the Rolls.

  ‘We’ll be warning officers along the highway about you,’ Ted said.

  ‘Warn them about Walters in the Porsche too,’ I said, starting up, ‘and tell them to be careful.’

  ‘No way,’ Ted said. ‘unless you make an official complaint in writing.’

  ‘In writing?’ I repeated. ‘Not necessarily at the police station?’

  ‘Well, it’s better if . . .’

  I pulled paper and pencil out of the glove box, scribbled the report of a kidnapping, signed it and handed it to young Roy.

  ‘If you want to save a life,’ I said to him, ‘act on it, I’m begging you.’

  Roy stood there gaping as Ted got into the police car and revved the engine.

  ‘Just remember what I said about speeding,’ Ted said, poking his head through the driver’s window.

  I waited until the police car was well away before retrieving Farrar’s gun and easing the Rolls back onto the highway.

  Eighty k, 100, 120, 140 k. I sat on 140, which was forty above the limit, and examined the map again. I had to squint to see names as I looked for anything with either ‘Rams’ or ‘av’ or any combination of those syllables in it.

  There was just one such place. Avenel. It was about sixty k away. I reached it at five a.m.

  Now, to find ‘Rams’ something. It was a long shot, but the only one I had. It had to be a country homestead. I meandered off the highway down side roads and past properties. Glenogel. Glen Haven. Tickleswood.

  At five forty I began contemplating whether to drive on to Sydney or return to Melbourne where the alarm could be raised formally. The pale moon was still visible, hanging like a painted bauble in the streaky red dawn sky. Crows were heralding sun-up with their mournful bark as moving shadows in the fields and valleys transformed into sheep. Rabbits were scurrying in front of the car and along the side of the tracks. One, a little slower than the others, had been squashed flat like a banana skin. I stopped the car and examined it. Only one set of wheels had contributed to the little tragedy that the morning was revealing, and it had happened within hours. My hope was that this poor bunny’s Sherman tank had been the Porsch
e.

  I could see the highway about two k away but couldn’t find the right track back. I noted the time as five fifty-five. I seemed to be so close but not able to find the road leading out of the maze.

  Then I saw the name on a broken gate. Rams Haven.

  Rams Haven, Avenel. It had to be it.

  I rested the Smith & Wesson on the passenger seat and took the road down the track into a sizeable property of small hills, and green pastures.

  The road wound close to a waterfall, and round the base of a hill. Down a small slope was a house covered in creeping vines. It was long. A modern extension had doubled its size. The roadway veered left of the house to a large makeshift garage and a small cottage. Smoke was coming out of the cottage chimney.

  A shot echoed across the valley. The Rolls slewed as a tyre hissed flat. I grappled the wheel and applied the brake, then ducked low and reached for the gun. Too late. Danielle had emerged from behind a shed by the road. She was holding an Utzi sub-machine gun close to the driver’s window. My hand was suspended above the weapon. She beckoned me out.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Danielle said.

  It seemed a strange remark, but I wasn’t about to argue. I was ticking off the seconds added to my life since she had poked the weapon at me.

  Danielle indicated the cottage. We marched to the sound of crunched gravel along the road and entered through a rear door. Walters and Cassie were standing by the window in the kitchen, and he kept staring outside as if he expected troops to storm the place any moment. He clutched a rifle, which looked far less comfortable in his hands than the sub-machine gun did in Danielle’s.

  Cassie’s hands clenched when she saw me.

  ‘We should take his car,’ Danielle said to Walters.