Wet Graves (12 page)

“Jackson?” I mumbled into the carpet.

“Right first time, Hardy. Why is it you're always on the floor when we meet?”

I tried to scramble up, and a strong arm helped me by pulling on the handcuffs.

“Easy, Arch,” Jackson said. “Don't mark him. And watch his feet. He's a tricky bugger.”

A short, strongly built man pushed me back against the wall. He grabbed a heavy swivel chair and used it to pin me there. I spat grit and fluff from my mouth and, with my vision more or less restored, I looked around the room. It was set up for very private card games—antique table with an expensive cloth, adjustable chairs, shaded light. There was a bar, smaller and less fancy than in the other room, but equipped for most tastes. The men in the room came in a variety of shapes and sizes: Rhino Jackson had changed a lot in the twenty-five years since he'd given me the quick count. He had been slight then, with quick, jerky movements. He was more like thickset the last time I'd seen him, a few years back, and since then he'd put on flesh uniformly from his neck down. The extra weight gave him a solid, immovable look. His tightly curled, gingery hair was now almost entirely grey. I didn't recognise the photographer, who stood fiddling with the camera, or the guy Jackson had called Arch, the one who'd applied the handcuffs. The other man in the room, sitting at the card table with a cigar going, was Barry Tobin, formerly Detective Inspector Barry Tobin of the New South Wales police.

I'd had two run-ins with Tobin, both unpleasant. On a scale with my best friend at number one and worst enemy at number ten, Tobin would come in at around eight.

Tobin was gross, no other word for him. Not very tall, he was ninety per cent blubber. The dark hair he'd been so vain about when he was young had gone, and the chief colour in his face was ruby red. But—unless the food and brandy had done to his brain what it had done to his body—he was smart.

He puffed on his cigar and tapped it carefully into an enamel ashtray on the table, taking care not to get ash on his three-piece suit. Still a dandy. “You were pretty easy to flatten, Hardy,” he said.

I blinked. “Eye problem.”

“I know, I know. Let's have a look at the pics.”

The photographer handed him some Polaroids. Tobin held them towards the light. He laughed; the sound came out breathless and strangled. “Look at this, Rhino. He's blinking like Dicky Harrison. Remember Dicky, Rhino? That flasher we used to pick up and have some fun with? He used to blink like that. Always pissed, of course. Are you pissed, Cliff?”

I shook my head. Tobin always loved to hear himself talk.

“Can't have that,” Tobin said. “We'll all have a drink in a minute.”

Jackson opened the door and looked into the passage. “Christ, he did a good job on Kenny. Did you get that?”

The photographer nodded. “Bet your arse. Show you in a minute.”

“What the hell is this?” I gave the chair a shove but paleface shoved back.

“Easy, Arch,” Jackson said. “Gently with him.”

You've met Arch before, Hardy. Realise that?”

I looked at Arch but didn't recognise him. “In church, maybe?” I said.

Tobin smiled. “Love a joke, don't you? No, he turned over your dump in Darlinghurst. Gave you a tap on the head, I understand.”

“And pinched a photograph.”

“That's right. Someone told us you had a picture with Rhino in it. Relic of the old days. We thought it'd help hook you if it went missing. Smart?”

I didn't reply. I could've said something about my damaged pizza but I hadn't the heart. It
was
smart. I was hooked.

Jackson said, “Let's go up to the wheelhouse, Barry.”

Tobin heaved himself from the chair.

“If you mean the ponced-up cockpit with the dials and switches, you'll never make it up the stairs,” I said.

Tobin gave voice to another of his half-asphyxiated laughs. “I'll make it up, Hardy. Question is, will you make it down?”

The photographer went away; Arch moved the chair, and he, Jackson, Tobin and I went out into the passage. Arch picked my gun up off the floor before we went. The man I'd knocked out was stirring but looking very sick. Tobin touched him on the shoulder. “Go and get a drink, Kenny. You did fine.”

“Shit.” Kenny said. “Do I get another go at him?”

“We'll see.”Jackson said.

“Pity about the Porsche.” I said.

Tobin paused before easing himself through the next doorway. “What?”

“I think I totalled a Porsche out there. Did some damage to a Merc too.”

Tobin's face flushed to the colour of a ripe plum. His breath came in short spurts as he fought for control. “That's just a matter of money. That can be put right.”

Arch prodded me forward and we went through the door, along the passage and up the steps to the wheelhouse. We went slowly because Tobin took it one step at a time. I could hear sounds coming from the other side of the houseboat and from onshore—a couple of engines running, some urgent talk and the clink of glasses.

“Sorry to spoil your party,” I said.

Tobin stopped. Answering me gave him a chance to catch his breath and also to hear the sound he loved, that of his own voice. “Party's not spoiled, Cliff. Dismiss that thought from your mind.We've got very good people on the job out there. They'll smooth things over.”

“What thoughts should I have on my mind? Apart from hoping your ticker gives out next step?”

“Oh, you might think about Beni Lenko and Didi Steller and the mystery witness. Yeah, try those thoughts on for size.”

“That won't take long. I don't know anything about them.”

Tobin didn't reply. We trooped through to the wheelhouse, which looked even more elaborate and digitalised when Jackson turned on the light. Then he pointed to a chair bolted to the floor in front of one of the devices with dials and switches. “Put him in the chair, Arch. Cuffs through the back. That's it. You can take a break now, mate. Call you if we need you.”

Arch left. “Not a great talker, Arch,” I said.

Tobin wheezed as he sat down out of kicking distance to my right. He pulled an ashtray towards him and shaped the end of his cigar. Jackson stood on the other side of the room. He fiddled with some switches. “Arch doesn't need to be a talker, Hardy, but you do. I asked you to think about Beni Lenko and Didi Steller.”

“And I told you that all I know about them is what I read in the papers.”

“Which was?”

“Come on, Tobin. What is this—the Quiz Kids?”

“Humour me.”

“We're going to be in trouble if I need to wipe my nose.”

Jackson wound a handle and a window slid open. “I told you he was a smartarse, Barry.”

“Oh, I knew that. Do you mind telling me what the fuck you're doing?”

“The smoke,” Jackson said.

“Close it! I like to fill a room with smoke. Hardy?”

I sighed. “Didi Steller hired Lenko to hit her rich husband. Lenko did a good job. Overcome with remorse, Didi killed herself with sleeping pills. Beni only got half his fee and was dumb enough to talk about it. So he got charged with murder.”

Tobin nodded. “Mistrial, first up.”

“Pity,” I said.

“Especially for you,” Jackson said.

“That's what I was coming to see you about, Rhino. I understand my name got mentioned by someone the cops are keeping under wraps. And you couldn't be found to throw any light on the matter.”

“Did you help to set up the hit?” Tobin said.

“Me? Set up a hit? In your case I might think about it. Otherwise, no.”

Tobin and Jackson exchanged a satisfied look which puzzled me.

“Good,” Tobin said.

“Did I say something right? How about Rhino saying something?”

“Like what?” Jackson coughed on the words. He really didn't like the smoke. I didn't care for it too much myself, but there was always the chance that Tobin might smoke himself to death right there and then.

“You knew Lenko pretty well. I wouldn't be surprised if you put him away a time or two. And then you probably saw him again when you went inside yourself.”

“Just for interest,” Tobin said, “have you ever been inside, Hardy?”

“Remand. Long Bay. Six weeks. About one per cent of what you'll get one of these days.”

“I doubt it,” Tobin said.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Jackson opened it and the photographer came in carrying a video camera. “Top stuff,” he said.

Tobin beckoned him across. The photographer pressed a button on the camera, and they put their heads close together to watch the small screen. Tobin's
wheezy
chuckle would have gone over well in the tunnel of horrors. He waved to Jackson, who shook his head. “Just so long as it's what we need.”

“Don't be a spoilsport, Rhino,” Tobin said. When Jackson didn't react he jerked his thumb at me. “Show him how he looks in action.”

The photographer brought the camera across and pressed the button. I saw myself in the corridor just after I'd come through the door. The camera must have been mounted high; it caught Kenny's reaction, and I saw I'd made a mistake when I thought I'd got him by surprise. He was more than ready. So ready that he telegraphed and slowed his punch, making it easy for me. Still, I looked pretty good in there, and I'm sure the
coup de grâce
wasn't in the script.

“Nice bit of work with the knee,” Tobin said.

I nodded. “I thought so at the time. I see it a bit differently now; I don't think Kenny was expecting the bee.”

Tobin ground out his cigar butt. “Maybe not, but you can't always plan things down to the last detail. It wouldn't be Kenny's first king hit. Now,” he reached into his pocket and took out the Polaroids, “you don't look quite so good in these.”

The photographer showed me the pictures; he strayed closer than he should have. I looked—a man with a crazed look in his face was blinking and waving a gun around that looked to be the size of a howitzer, good angle—but I didn't give the photographs my full attention. When I was sure he was in range I swung my right foot hard into the photographer's knee. He screamed, dropped the photographs and went down hard, whimpering. He scrambled up and hobbled towards me with the video camera held high. Jackson sprang forward, snatched the camera with one hand and gave the photographer a rabbit punch with the other. He went down again.

“It's not your night, sport,” I said.

Jackson put the camera and pictures on the navigation desk and snapped his fingers at the man on the floor. “Out,” he said. “Go and have a drink.”

I grinned. ‘With Kenny.”

The photographer shot me an evil look and limped out Tobin lit another cigar. His amused calm worried me more than Jackson's nervous energy. I looked around as best I could, immobilised as I was in the chair. There was nothing much to see; we were twenty feet above the water; the lights of Darling Point looked a million miles away.

Tobin puffed his cigar. “Tight spot, Cliff.”

“I admit I'm puzzled … Barry.”

“What about scared?”

“Should I be? You haven't hurt me yet. I'd say I was winning, head to head.”

“You don't know what the game is. Let's hear it, Rhino.”

Jackson fiddled with the switches again, and I heard my voice loud and clear: “Me? Set up a hit? In your case I might think about it …” Jackson hit a button and the tape stopped. He fiddled some more and I heard myself say, “Lenko did a good job …”

11

Tobin couldn't resist telling me all about it. How he'd help to set up the hit with Lenko; how jackson had used my name when dealing on the telephone with Prue Harper. Harper was a prostitute Didi Steller used to mix with for the thrill of being on the edge of the demi-monde. Everything went wrong when Didi suicided and Lenko started talking.

“Couldn't have anticipated that.” Tobin couldn't talk or do anything for long without a drink. He'd fished out a bottle of scotch and was on his second snort. Jackson was nursing one. They hadn't offered me any.

“I don't know,” I said. “You must have known that Didi was unstable and Beni was dumb. I'd say you screwed up, Barry. Your name came up, did it? I expect Prue Harper'd know you.”

Tobin smiled. “We took out a bit of insurance there by throwing your name into the pool, as it were.”

I began to get an inkling of what was going on then. The photographs, the film, the kid glove treatment. It smelled of a set-up and, knowing Tobin, the details would be nasty. “Did you have a hand in this hearing business? The review of my licence?”

Tobin nodded. “I've still got a few friends on the force. But don't worry, Hardy, you won't have to attend any hearing.”

Jackson snickered behind me.

“Don't you see it?” Tobin said. “You're going to kill poor little Prue.”

I stared at him. A cramp had started in my arms and was sending a sharp pain up into my shoulders when I moved. I worked my wrists up and down in the few inches of free play available. The cramp got worse and I winced. “You're crazy. I'm not killing anybody.”

Jackson worked the controls of his tape recorder again and my voice said, “… know Prue Harper.”

“As it happens,” Tobin said, “you don't know her. But by the time the experts get through with this tape it'll sound as if you do. In fact, it'll sound as if you know everything and have been a very bad boy.”

“Bullshit. They can spot doctored tapes.”

“Not always. You'd be amazed at some of the advances in that field in recent times. Especially in the States.” Tobin waved his cigar. “And I've got a few connections there, too.”

“I can't understand why you left the force,” I said. “I know all about Rhino. He got caught. But you're so smart, Barry. What went wrong?”