by Peter Corris
Dunlop nodded. 'Saw the blood.'
'She's all right. It's nothing serious. She's being looked after.'
'I hope so,' Dunlop said. 'For your sake. So what's the deal here?'
'Pretty simple. I want the evidence for whatever Dave has on Thomas Kippax—in exchange for the girl. Also Dave's agreement to change his tune.'
'That leaves Dave well and truly in the shit. He's facing some serious charges if he does the dirty on the SCCA.'
'That's tough. My heart bleeds for him.'
Scanlon's head turned slightly as he watched first one then the other. His lips were moving as if he was repeating what each one said. Dunlop looked down at him with a worried frown.
'What guarantees does Dave get?'
Trish picked up the syringe from the coffee table. 'No guarantees at all. Just a promise that he never sees the girl again if he doesn't play. He knows what I mean.'
Scanlon launched himself from the chair, or attempted to. When he was younger and stronger his dive would have carried him across the room and his head butt would have broken bones. But the attack was painfully slow and ill-coordinated. Scanlon caught his foot on the rug, lost balance and fell, well short of his target. Trish laughed and pointed the pistol at his head as he looked up.
'You fucking clown. All you arseholes are fucking clowns. Detective Inspector! Fuck, I'm ten times more effective than you and your lot, always was.'
'You boong bitch!'
Trish took one half-step forward and kicked him in the face. The edge of her shoe caught him below the right eye and ripped the flesh from his cheekbone. Scanlon moaned and clutched at his face. Dunlop stood and found himself looking down at the pistol. Trish was standing very straight, but relaxed. The gun was pointed at his chest.
'What've you got, Dave? A tape? Photos?'
Blood dripped from Scanlon's hands as he levered himself up from the floor. He wiped one hand on the rumpled beige rug, cleared his throat and spat more blood onto the floor.
'Video,' he said.
'Video. That's good. That's very good. Give me your mobile number, Dunlop. I'll be in touch.'
Scanlon was sitting up now, the right side of his face torn and bleeding with a purple swelling threatening to close the eye. He looked across at Dunlop, who had resumed his seat. But Dunlop was looking around the room as if studying every detail.
'You can't leave it like that. I want . . .'
'I don't give a fuck what you want, Dave. It's what I want that counts now. And I want a bit of time to work a few things out.'
'To put the screws on, you mean,' Dunlop said.
Trish laughed. 'You're not altogether dumb, honey. Cute, too. Pity I didn't get you to strip. I bet you'd have looked a hell of a lot better than fat-gut Dave. The number!'
Dunlop recited it.
'Again. Slowly.'
He repeated it.
'Okay. Got it. I'll toss the guns off the balcony. How does it feel to get outsmarted and stood over by a woman, Dave? A first for you, eh? You were a lousy fuck, too. I might as well tell you that.'
16
Dunlop helped Scanlon down the stairs. The two men stood in the garden and watched Trish Tillotson drop their weapons into the flowerbeds. Scanlon rested against a brick pillar while Dunlop retrieved the guns. Music was still flowing from the second-floor balcony, but there were no other sounds or noises from the flats. The block was a quiet island in a quiet sea. Dunlop looked at the cars parked in the driveway.
'What does she drive?' he asked.
Scanlon's face was pale in the dim light. His jowls sagged and his weatherbeaten skin looked ready to peel away. 'She doesn't fucking drive. Hates it. Why?'
'Nothing. You're not looking the best, Dave. Come on back to the car. I don't want you having another turn on me.'
'We have to talk about . . .'
'Yeah. In a minute. I think I've got a flask of brandy there. Might steady you down. Come on.'
He supported Scanlon as they moved slowly up the driveway to the street. The big man's weight was telling on him by the time he reached the top and he realised that he'd have had difficulty in making the walk unaided. He took a breather and half-dragged an apologetic Scanlon to the car. He found the brandy in the glove box and put the bottle in Scanlon's hands. 'Only an inch or so. Take it slowly. Be back in a minute.'
Scanlon's head lolled. 'Where you going?'
'Just hang on.'
'Hope I get a chance to put one in her.'
'Sure, Dave.'
Dunlop jogged back towards the flats, ducking into the shadows and moving down the driveway under the cover of the parked cars. He was tired and jangle-nerved, but alerted by what he'd noticed. Several of the cars were dark and several were foreign—a Mercedes, a Volvo, an Alfa Romeo—but none was dark and foreign. There were three roller-door garages at the rear of the block. Dunlop worked his way towards them, pressing himself back against the ivy-covered brick wall that divided the flats from a high-rise apartment block at the rear. He squinted—the white paint had faded, but the three doors had 4, 8 and 12 stencilled on them. Dunlop looked up at the block—there were three corner flats offering larger balconies than the rest with 180-degree views. Trish Tillotson's and two others. With car spaces.
Trish came walking briskly towards the garages. The area was poorly lit but she was sure-footed, confident of avoiding obstacles. She was almost sprightly, walking with exaggerated energy. High on some bloody thing, Dunlop thought. He watched as she knocked on the door marked 4. The consternation she displayed when she got no response was the first sign of discomposure Dunlop had seen in her. He was glad to see it. What's the matter, Trishy? Lost something?
She bent, took hold of the door handle and lifted. The door rolled up smoothly and quietly and she stepped into the darkness. Dunlop heard a metallic click and a faint light showed inside the garage. He heard murmured voices, saw a stronger light and then the quiet closing of a car door. Trish emerged with her arm around a tall, fair-headed man. Biggish bloke. . . pretty fit. Except that he was looking about as tired as Dunlop felt. Trish closed and locked the garage door and the pair walked hand-in-hand out of the range of Dunlop's vision. Trish held a torch and flicked the beam around the area in front of the garage. Dunlop held his breath as the light danced towards him, but it wasn't strong enough to reach his hiding place.
He left the wall and approached the garages. A metal sign bolted between two of the doors advised that armed guards of Eastern Suburbs Security Ltd patrolled the premises. Dunlop used his pick-locks on the door and had it open and raised in less than two minutes. He went in and discerned the shape of the motor car occupying the space. He closed the garage door before trying the driver's door. It opened and the car's interior light came on. Dunlop noted that the back doors were unlocked. He studied the back seat and felt around on the upholstery and panelling. His hand touched something that had dried onto the carpet, and he picked at it and sniffed. He froze as he heard footsteps approaching. Silently he closed the driver's door, shutting off the light. There was a rattle as the first of the garage doors was tried. The tread was heavy. The second door was shaken. Then the footsteps retreated, the guard evidently having decided that checking two of the three doors was sufficient.
Slack. Dunlop waited until the footsteps had receded before opening the car door again. He was calculating times and distances, wondering whether Trish and her companion would have had time to deposit Mirabelle somewhere before getting to Bellevue Hill. Hard to say. The Saab had a commodious boot and Dunlop contemplated forcing it. He turned on the overhead light and cast about for a suitable tool. A large screwdriver lay on top of a double row of tea chests. Dunlop reached for it, slipped on an oily patch and grabbed at the boxes for support. He missed his hold, knocked two of the tea chests down and cut his hand on the tin strapping. He swore and sucked at the cut, bent for the screwdriver and saw the shape, now only half-concealed by the boxes, lying against the wall.
'Oh, Jesus. Oh, no.'
H
e crawled across the floor, pushing the tea chests aside, and lifted the blanket-wrapped bundle clear. Gently, he uncovered one end and his teeth clicked together painfully as he looked into Mirabelle's wide-open, sightless grey eyes.
'Bastards. You scumbag bastards.'
The girl's head lay at an odd angle in a way that Dunlop, who had attended many road accidents in his police career, instantly recognised. He completed the unwrapping and saw the thigh wound. He rocked back on his heels, his mind flooding with possibilities, explanations, strategies. The result was confusion. What the fuck am I going to do now? Despite himself, he couldn't help recognising that the knowledge of Mirabelle's death neutralised any advantage Trish Tillotson thought she enjoyed. But there was no way that David Scanlon could cope with the information in his present condition.
Dunlop worked quickly, restoring the blanket to its previous position, putting the body back against the wall and replacing the boxes and the screwdriver. He closed the door of the Saab, turned off the light and lifted the roller door sufficiently to enable him to get under it in a crouch. He eased the door back down and moved quickly back up the driveway to the street, keeping an eye on the balcony and windows of Flat 4. A reddish light showed at one window, otherwise the flat was in darkness. No sound came from the balcony where the music had been playing. Dunlop reached the street and strode towards the Laser. His leg muscles ached and he realised that his face was set in a rictus of pain and concentration.
'Dave?'
He opened the passenger door and found Scanlon slumped in the seat, tilting forward and sideways towards the steering wheel. His breath was coming in short gasps and the left side of his body appeared to be frozen. His eyes were closed and his jaw was slack, sagging to the left. Dunlop eased Scanlon into a position where the seat would contain him and fastened his seat belt. Scanlon's breathing was tortured but steady and his pulse was fluttering but constant. He got quickly behind the wheel, started the car and punched buttons on his mobile phone.
'Dunlop,' he said when the call was answered. 'Client with heart attack or stroke or both. Coming in at once. Full-scale medical attendance required.'
The private hospital used by the WPU was in Surry Hills. Dunlop battled fatigue as he drove at speed through the quiet streets. The brandy flask rolled around on the floor at Scanlon's feet as Dunlop braked and put the Laser through tight turns. Two images were fixed in his mind. First, the arrogant strut of Trish Tillotson in her red shirt and tight jeans, hand-in-hand with a tall young man, both healthy-looking and fit, sexually linked, walking away. And the concealed, broken body of Mirabelle, scarcely more than a child, and the only thing in the world that mattered to the man sitting next to him.
Dunlop pulled up in front of the hospital and an expert team swung into action. Scanlon was unstrapped, lifted onto a gurney and wheeled up a ramp and through a set of perspex doors. Edgar Georges' packet of Rothman's fell onto the pavement and Dunlop, propped against the car, saw it and was momentarily tempted. He shrugged the impulse away and went in search of coffee.
'Mr Dunlop!'
Dunlop was shaken awake by a nurse who held a styrofoam cup, the same as the other two sitting empty on the arm of the chair where he'd fallen asleep.
'Mr Dunlop, the doctor wants you in the ward.'
Dunlop forced his eyes to open and his brain to engage. The nurse's grip was firm and she shook him solidly. A big woman, wide-shouldered and fair—nothing like Trish Tillotson. Dunlop's arm jerked and knocked the empty cups to the floor.
'Careful, please!'
'Sorry. Sorry. Where should I go?'
'Second floor. I think you should drink this first and freshen up. The men's toilet is beside the lift.'
Dunlop took the cup and sipped. The coffee was hot but his tastebuds had ceased working. He couldn't tell whether it was heavily sugared as the other two cups had been or not. His mouth was a sour cavern. 'Thank you, nurse. Can you tell me . . .'
'It's sister, if you don't mind, and I'm afraid I can't tell you anything. You'll have to talk to doctor.'
Dunlop said 'Thank you' again and struggled to his feet. He collected the empty cups and dropped them in a bin. After a long swallow from the full cup it followed the others. He washed his face in the men's room, rinsed his mouth several times and ran his fingers through his hair which had become greasy and lank in the course of the day. He stared at himself in the mirror, thinking that he looked only marginally better than Dave Scanlon when he'd last seen him. He rode the lift to the second floor, where he was met by a bespectacled, white-coated doctor who introduced himself as Peter Mockridge.
'Your man's in a bad way, I'm afraid,' Mockridge said. 'I don't honestly think he can last the night.'
Dunlop blinked. 'Come on, haven't you got life-support systems and all that?'
'That's only suitable for some cases. Mr Scanlon's got a multiplicity of problems. Very significant occlusions, of course, but that's complicated by an arrhythmic problem and a serious thrombotic condition. He needs a multiple bypass and a pacemaker, but he's in no condition to survive the surgery. He's got emphysema and he's vulnerable to pneumonia just from the sedation he's had so far to relieve the hysteria he went into. I'm sorry, Mr Dunlop, but he's a write-off.'
'So what are you telling me?'
'As I say, he's unlikely to make it through the night. There's at least three things poised to kill him, so if you want to talk to him, you'd better do it right away.'
'He's lucid?'
'For now.'
Dunlop followed the doctor down the corridor to the room where Scanlon lay on a narrow bed. A tube ran from his nose and several others snaking from his left arm were connected to a stand beside the bed and an electronic device mounted at its foot. Dunlop threaded his way through the apparatus and bent over Scanlon, whose breathing was still shallow, although less laboured. His eyes were closed.
'Dave, it's Dunlop.'
Scanlon's eyes opened and showed no comprehension before closing again.
Dunlop glanced at Mockridge, who shrugged. 'It's Frank Carter, Dave,' he said. 'Uniform from Five Dock, plain clothes at the Cross. You remember me.'
The eyes flickered. 'Golf.'
'That's right, Dave. We played golf today—you and me. Three and three and two halves.'
'Mirabelle,' Scanlon said.
'Yes, Dave. We'll find her. Where's the video? Where's the Kippax video?'
The voice was a faint whisper. 'Mirabelle.'
'Dave—where's the video?'
'Mirabelle.'
'Dave . . .'
Scanlon sucked in air painfully as if his body was reluctant to take it. He twitched and gasped. The blue vein in his forehead pulsed.
'Doctor!'
Mockridge threw open the door and bellowed for a nurse. He almost threw himself on Scanlon, pummelling his flabby chest and thumping his rib cage. A nurse rushed into the room and Mockridge spewed words at her that Dunlop did not understand. He stood uselessly at the bedside while Mockridge massaged and pounded. The nurse returned carrying a loaded syringe with a long needle. Mockridge ripped aside the hospital gown and plunged the needle into Scanlon's chest in a way that almost caused Dunlop to throw up.
'Lift his arms,' Mockridge barked.
Dunlop and the nurse raised the limp arms, pumped them up and down while Mockridge withdrew the needle and looked anxiously at the electronic monitor. Dunlop shot the screen a glance and saw the flat, unwavering green line.
The nurse was sweating. 'Doctor?'
Dunlop saw that the fat vein in Scanlon's sun-blasted forehead had ceased throbbing. He pumped the arm again, but it felt like trying to draw water from a dry well.
Mockridge was sweating almost as much as the nurse. He tore his eyes from the screen and looked at Dunlop. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'He's gone.'
PART II
17
'It's difficult to see how you could have handled things more ineptly,' Burton said.
Dunlop sat, turning an envelope in
his hands, and said nothing. He'd been unable to sleep since taking Scanlon to hospital. Completely unable. Hours of report writing and question-and-answer sessions hadn't tired him. His nerves were shot from too much coffee. Whisky hadn't helped, nor had pills or hot baths. He felt he'd become the world expert at staring at blank walls.
'Scanlon dead, his daughter missing. Wild accusations from you with absolutely no proof and this disgraceful story.'
Burton pushed a newspaper across the table towards Dunlop, who ignored it. The headline read: MINDERS HAVE SEX WHILE GIRL VANISHES. The story, sourced to 'a person within the Witness Protection Unit', alleged that two senior officers slept together and neglected security at a safe house from which Mirabelle Scanlon had disappeared.
Burton retrieved the paper and read, his voice dripping with sarcasm. '"Mirabelle, attractive 16-year-old daughter of former detective Dave 'Sailor' Scanlon, is still missing following the death of her father two days ago. The ex-policeman was due to give evidence to an SCCA hearing on stock market manipulation and other high-level white collar crime, but died of a massive heart attack the day before the inquiry opened The senior member of the protection team allegedly played golf with Scanlon. . ." Golf, Jesus, you must have been out of your mind.'
'It was his idea,' Dunlop said sullenly. 'I was just keeping him happy, as per orders. The story's bullshit—no-one ever called Dave Scanlon "Sailor" in his life.'
'Flip comments won't help. This is a monumental cock-up. I notice you don't deny the accuracy of the report in one respect.'
Dunlop shrugged. 'The timing's all to shit. It was the night before—it had nothing to do with the girl getting loose. I've told you—this is Lucy Scanlon's work. She hated Dave and the girl. She was a plant. She kept Tillotson or Kippax or both informed of what was going on. That's how they got to the girl before we did.'
'That's absurd. Mrs Scanlon has been too distraught to make any comment at all.'
Dunlop's laugh was a short, harsh bark. 'Dream on, Mr Burton. Believe what you like.'