He puts down the tools and turns to her, crouches and slaps her face. She groans and turns away.
‘Jenny,’ he says. ‘Poor little helpless blind bitch. You don’t know me, do yer? Me name’s Frank, Frank Capp.’
Yes, I do. I know you, she thinks. I’ve read all about you. She mumbles, ‘Where’s Harry?’
‘Lucky bastard, should’ve died. But reckon he’ll be here soon enough. We got some unfinished business.’
There is a feverish, excited tone in his voice; he can’t keep still. She guesses ice—he’s high on ice.
Whatever happens, she thinks, I mustn’t let him know I can see.
There is a distant growl of an engine from somewhere outside.
‘Here we go,’ Capp says, ‘Better get ready.’
He goes over to the table and picks up the hammer, and then his mobile buzzes.
78
They listen to the conversation. The negotiator begins.
‘Frank? My name is Bruno Severini, I am a police negotiator. I am here to help you. We want to resolve this without any further bloodshed. How are you feeling?’
‘Feelin?’ A harsh laugh. ‘Fuckin great man. Fuckin outstanding.’
‘How is Jenny?’
‘Oh, she’s lookin good man, real good. Tasty. Maybe not for long though.’
‘Frank, I want you to sit down and take a deep breath and relax. Okay? Can you do that?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘I want you to think hard about what I’m going to tell you, because it’s important. Okay?’
Nothing.
‘Frank? Are you there? We have plenty of time here to get this sorted. We all just need to be calm.’
There’s a sudden sound of heavy breathing in the mouthpiece. ‘Listen, I want that mongrel Belltree up here, alone. Got it?’
‘Is that Detective Harry Belltree, Frank?’
‘Jesus, how many Belltrees ya got?’
‘I’ll have to speak to my boss, Frank, but I don’t think that will be possible. He was badly hurt in the explosion. But you can come and see him for yourself. Just put down your weapons and walk out through the front door and we’ll take you to him.’
‘Listen arsehole, I want Belltree up here. He can crawl on his fuckin belly for all I care. But if he wants to see his little blind woman again before I cut her fuckin head off he’s gotta come up here, alone. Got it?’
In the background, faintly, a shout. ‘Harry, don’t come here!’
The phone goes dead.
Severini tries to ring it again, but it goes straight to voicemail.
Harry takes out his own phone. He brings up Jenny’s mobile, and after several rings Capp answers. ‘Harry.’
‘Yes, Frank.’
‘Get yer fuckin arse up here. Alone, no guns, hands in the air.’
‘Okay.’
The others try to stop him, Fogarty with a direct order, but when he starts to walk no one holds him back. It should be a long haul up the dirt road on his aching leg. He hardly feels it. He has no plan and no weapon. Only the knowledge of how Capp will want to kill him.
He reaches the front steps, stomps loudly on them as he gets to the front door, which swings open at his touch. He’s in a narrow hallway.
‘In here, Harry.’
He turns and sees through an open door—Jenny seated on a kitchen chair facing him, Capp standing behind her, a pistol in his left fist, aimed at Harry, the other holding a hammer.
‘Come on in, Harry.’
Harry steps through the doorway, sees Capp aim the pistol at his stomach.
‘On your knees.’
Harry kneels.
‘Hands flat on the floor in front of you.’
Capp comes round to him, swinging the hammer in his free hand. ‘Waited a long time for this, mate.’
Harry thinks, now, I have to do something now. But the muzzle of the pistol is steady, less than a metre from him, point-blank range, as Capp raises the hammer high above his head.
Beyond him Harry sees Jenny rise silently from her chair and move to the table, where, as easily as if she could see it, she picks up the axe. She steps quickly up behind Capp and swings the blade down hard upon his head.
His whole body convulses, a leap and a twist. He falls to the floor, writhing, and the gun in his hand goes off. Then abruptly the flailing stops and he lies still.
Harry looks down at Capp’s body, the bloody axe lying by its side. He notices a splatter of blood on his own shirt and wonders if he’s been shot. No, it’s Capp’s blood.
Shouts, boots, black figures crashing into the room. He goes to Jenny and wraps his arms around her. ‘Thank God,’ he whispers. ‘Thank God.’ The smell of her hair, the feel of her against him.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she says. Then, ‘Harry, I have this pain.’
‘Where?’
‘In my side.’ She shows him, the left side of her belly, and he sees blood.
‘Ambos! Here, quick.’
Two paramedics run in and pause to stare at Capp.
‘No, over here!’
79
Harry stares out of the helicopter window at the long line of traffic on the highway down below. Cars crawling towards the city. He feels utterly detached up here. His mind, it seems, refuses to accept that this is possible. Beside him, holding his hand, Jenny lies on the stretcher, hooked up to a drip and an oxygen mask, monitored by the two paramedics. The bullet lodged inside her is so small, just a twenty-two.
Somewhere over Hornsby her hand goes limp and they begin CPR. When they land at Westmead they rush her away to try to save her and the twenty-two-week baby.
Ross finds him in the waiting room. Puts a hand on his shoulder.
‘Strangest thing,’ Harry whispers. ‘In the chopper she told me she could see me.’
80
Four days later he opens the door to her hospital room. Jenny’s sister Nicole is there by the bedside. The two women clasping hands, heads close together, Nicole talking, Jenny pale, nodding in agreement. He waits by the door as Nicole gets to her feet and comes towards him.
‘How is she?’
‘The doctor was here a few minutes ago. She’ll tell you.’ The smile Nicole gives him is sad. She grips his arm for a moment, then leaves.
Harry takes her seat, seeing the tears brimming from Jenny’s eyes.
‘How are you feeling, sweetheart?’ He reaches for her hand, but she doesn’t respond to his touch.
‘And your eyes? They’re good? The headache gone?’
She turns her face away with a look of pain, as if her recovered sight is a reproach, or a curse.
‘I should never have involved Meri,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t forgive myself.’
He begins to form a reply, but she turns back to stare at him. ‘How did he know, Harry? How did he call me?’
He swallows, feeling that cold lump in his chest. ‘He got hold of my phone. The one with your number on it.’
She turns away again, withdrawing her hand from his. ‘I thought, when we went to Newcastle, it was over. I thought, a new start, the baby…’ The tears spill down her cheeks, her head shaking in despair. ‘I should have known better.’
He tries again to take her hand, but again she pulls away. He says gently, ‘What did the doctor say?’
She sucks in a deep breath. ‘They can’t remove the bullet without endangering the baby. So I told them they mustn’t touch it.’
‘But…’ They have been very clear about this—lodged where it is, the bullet can kill Jenny at any time, without warning.
‘They have to wait,’ she says. ‘A few weeks, a month or two, until the baby’s old enough to survive. Then they can operate.’
Harry starts to object, but she stops him, voice suddenly hard. ‘It doesn’t matter what you think, Harry.’ The words are like a slap. ‘This is my decision, not yours. When they’ve saved the baby, then they can remove the bullet. After that, they’ve told me I won’t be able to have any more chil
dren.’
A silence, then he says, ‘I’ll support any decision you make, Jenny. Will they keep you here?’
‘Yes. But I don’t want you to visit me anymore, Harry.’
‘What?’
‘The baby is the only important thing now. I won’t have you put it at risk again.’
‘But it’s over now.’
She stares fiercely at him. ‘For me it is. But for you? Have you found out what you wanted, Harry? Have you got to the bottom of it, what happened on that road three years ago?’
He can’t answer and she turns away. ‘Later, if I go and stay with my mother, or with Nicole and the girls, will they be in any danger?’
‘No, no.’
‘That’s what I’ll do then. For a while, anyway. Then I don’t know.’
‘But Jenny, we…’
‘I want you to go now, Harry. This is too difficult.’
Nicole is waiting for him outside in the corridor.
‘She just needs time, Harry. We’ll look after her. I’ll get help for her.’
Numb, he walks out of the hospital and finds his way to his car. He gets in and sits behind the wheel. Stares through the windscreen, unseeing.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
At writers’ festivals and workshops I am regularly asked about research: how important is it? How do I do it? Today the internet makes access to information so much easier than when I first started writing crime fiction that it’s tempting to think that research is just about accumulating and selecting facts. But it’s more than this; it’s also about absorbing atmosphere, learning the informal languages that professionals speak but never write down, and getting a sense of what’s going on inside their heads. For this you need to speak to people who are involved in the fields that you are trying to bring to life on the page. In this book I have been immensely fortunate to have been helped by some wonderful people, whom I must acknowledge. Of course they are not responsible for any of the words or actions of Harry Belltree and his friends and enemies.
I would especially like to thank Alex Mitchell, Detective Superintendent Matt Appleton, Detective Superintendent Mick Willing, Detective Chief Inspector Wayne Humphrey, Detective Inspector Chris Olen, Dr Tim Lyons, Libby Dickeson and members of the Blind Book Club at Vision Australia Hamilton, Rev. Garry Dodd, Graham Clark, Colin O’Donnell, Peter Mathews, Darren Shearer, John and Kirsten Tranter, my agent Lyn Tranter and my publishers at Text: Michael Heyward, Mandy Brett, Jane Novak and Stephanie Speight. And most especially my wife Margaret, for her help in so many ways.
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