Wet Graves (14 page)

“You're a mess,” Meredith said.

“So would you be if you had to do the sorts of things I have to do.”

“You must tell me about it sometime. Right now, I could do with some background on what we're getting into now.”

I filled him in as best I could, remembering scraps as I went along and backtracking to fit them into the story.

“Are you following this. Constable Moody?” Meredith said to the driver.

“No, sir.” Moody's voice had the harsh note characteristic of the city Aboriginal. I noticed that his hands and the back of his neck were brown. He drove with the economy and decisiveness of a professional.

“Me neither.”

“You would if you heard the tape. Have you got it safe?”

Meredith patted his breast pocket. “Yep. You saying Barry Tobin set up the hit?”

“Yes. And I don't think it's the only one he set up. This Prue Harper apparently knows a bit about it, so Jackson said.”

Meredith's big head nodded. His hair was longish at the back, straggling over his ears and collar. My grandma used to say that untidiness was a sign of honesty. It meant you weren't always out to make the right impression. On that score, Meredith was honest. “A dying declaration,” he said. “Pity we haven't got it on tape.”

“Victoria Street, sir,” the driver said.

We'd approached from the Potts Point end of the street, leaving the water below and behind us. There was no telling what route Tobin would take and no knowing whether he'd get there before us or after. I shrugged out of the oilskin, which was making me hot, and finished dabbing at my cuts and abrasions. The aches in my arms and legs would have to take care of themselves. I remembered the last time I'd seen Tobin in action, when he was blasting away with a shotgun, and I suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed.

“There it is. Pull over.” Meredith sounded edgy too. He pointed through the windscreen at the big, three-storey terrace house which had a neon sign over the gate—BUDGET BACKPACKER. “Christ knows how they run these things.” Meredith said. “Do they just deposit the protected witness somewhere they consider safe and leave it at that? Or do they keep a watch?”

“Haven't you been briefed?” I said.

Meredith glanced at the driver who was sitting rigidly, with his hands on the steering wheel. “I was busy,” he said. “Let's take a look. You'd better check your weapon, Constable Moody, but for God's sake don't use it unless you have to.”

“What about my weapon?” I said.

“What about it?”

“Tobin's got more reason to kill me than you or Moody. He might think I've got the tape.”

Meredith stared ahead at the street and didn't reply. It was about two in the morning and fairly quiet. Not that it's ever completely quiet at the Cross. There were people in the street, drifting along, getting close to the end of their day. The street was lined with cars; some of them, the Falcon and Holden station wagons mostly, the vehicles that Backpackers would try to sell the following day. There were cars with resident stickers and others belonging to the people who came to the Cross for alcohol, food and sex, or just to look.

Moody had checked his pistol and returned it to the holster. “I know Prue Harper, sir,” he said.

“Do you?” Meredith said. “That helps.”

“Do you want me to go in and bring her out, sir?”

Meredith opened his door. “It's not a bad idea. Hardy, you stay here.”

I opened my door. “Not without my gun.”

Meredith hesitated. We were parked about fifty metres from the gate of the house. The street was well lit and the pavement, looking back towards Darlinghurst Road, was like a shooting gallery.

Meredith shook his head. “If you see anything, Hardy, turn on the siren. Show him how it works, constable.”

Moody showed me the switch. I nodded. “Great. I'll tackle him while he's suffering temporary blindness and hearing loss.”

“Look,” Meredith said. “Tobin won't know that Jackson told us anything. He'll be counting on confusion and delay. It's very unlikely that he'll show. We'll go in and get the woman. That's it.”

“There's a lane at the back,” Moody said. “Bound to be another way in.”

“Shit,” Meredith said. “All right, Hardy, here's your bloody gun. You stay here. I'll go around the back and check it. Then the constable and I'll go in the front door. Before sunrise, I hope.”

Meredith retreated around the nearest corner. I sat in the passenger seat next to Moody. I was tense, he seemed relaxed. “How d'you come to know Prue Harper?” I said.

Moody stared ahead. “I know lots of people.”

“What's she like?”

“Foolish,” he said

A clutch of people came down the street—three large, blonde young men and a couple of women of the same stamp. They separated. A couple went into the house we were watching, the others crossed the road to the HOTEL CALIFORNIA—BACKPACKERS WELCOME.

“Lucky buggers,” Moody said. “Where do you reckon they're from?”

I shrugged. “Germany, Sweden.”

“Wouldn't mind going there myself.” Suddenly, he leaned forward. I tried to see where he was looking.

“What?” I said.

“Look there.” He pointed. “The Tarago.”

A large van was moving slowly towards us. I couldn't see the driver or anyone else in the van, but Moody could. He gave me a shove which hurt one of the ribs Arch had kicked. “The driver's checking the place out. Get down!”

We slumped down and the van cruised past. Moody sneaked a look in the rear vision mirror.

“What's it doing?”

“Stopping,” he said. “Two guys getting out. Skinny bloke and a fat one, real fat. That him?”

“Could be.”

“They're going around the back.”

“Can't sit here,” I said. I opened my door and eased out, keeping low. The street was empty now; Moody ran for the corner and I limped after him. The street we turned into was narrow and dark. I could just glimpse the entry to a lane which ran behind the terrace houses. fronting Victoria Street. Moody disappeared into the lane. I followed him after looking cautiously around the corner first. I saw shapes moving ahead, darting from one side of the lane to the other. I moved ahead slowly, pressing back against a brick wall.

Two shots, clean and sharp like whipcracks, sounded in quick succession, then I heard Meredith shout. “Stop! Police!”

A third shot, with a heavier note, boomed out, and the lane was suddenly full of echoes and swearing and the sounds of running feet. A figure loomed up in front of me, running fast Too tall to be Moody, too slight for Meredith. I stepped out and tried to raise my gun, but he arrived too soon. Too soon for him as well. He swung something short and stubby at me; I ducked under the swing and dived forward, hitting about knee high and sending him thumping hard onto the ground, head first There was a roar as the shotgun he had been carrying hit the brick wall and went off. Pellets flicked around, ricocheting from the bricks and roadway. They missed me. He didn't move.

I got up and peered through the gunsmoke, but I couldn't see anything. I'd dropped my gun. I bent over, feeling for it as much as looking. Suddenly, Tobin was there—wide as a house with his breath coming in wheezy gasps and his chest heaving. He pointed a pistol at me and I froze.

“Fuck you, Hardy. Fuck you …”

I could see him getting up the will to shoot me, and I couldn't move or speak. The shotgun was on the road but it was a mile away. Tobin shuffled forward, making sure …

I waited for the explosion, but instead I heard a sound no louder than a whisper. Moody rose up from the shadows and chopped the pistol from Tobin's grasp with a blow that cracked the bones in Tobin's hand. Moody grabbed Tobin's arm and jerked it up behind him. Tobin resisted, straining to use his bulk against the lighter man. As I moved forward to help, a car swung into the lane and hit us with its headlights. Moody rammed his gun into Tobin's ear.

“Give it up!”

Tobin jerked his head around and saw the dark, intense face close to his own. “You black cunt! You fuckin' boong …”

Moody jammmed his gun in harder. “Sticks and stones,
gubbah
,” he said. “Sticks and stones.”

BOOK TWO

13

Having my bacon saved twice in the one night by policemen was an unusual experience. I thanked and complimented Moody, but there was no way to communicate with Meredith. Barry Tobin had shot him twice, in the chest and in the leg, and while I was being interviewed, cross-examined and warned, Meredith was in St Vincents fighting for his life.

Eventually, with the help of Frank Parker, I got things. sorted out. The police had the tape and the film and the photographs, and a statement from me which probably didn't make a lot of sense—it was 3 a.m. and I'd suffered a fair amount of personal abuse—but laid emphasis on my innocence. With my battered head, torn pants and shotgun pellet-ripped jacket, I had credibility as the victim of a conspiracy. Parker assured me that if I had to appear in the magistrate's court it would only be to receive an apology. I would have been feeling more or less cheerful if it hadn't been for Meredith.

“He's pretty tough,” Parker said. “Used to play hockey, they tell me.” Frank was driving me home. It was 3.45. His wife wouldn't be happy at my keeping her man working so late, but, as my former tenant, she knew my erratic habits.

I was so tired that forming words felt like building a brick wall but, after all the trouble Parker had gone to, it would have been bad form to just nod off there in the car. “Is hockey a game for tough guys?”

“Ice hockey, in Canada.”

“Oh. Yeah. I'm with you.” I'd seen North American hockey games on TV. I remembered watching one with Helen Broadway. She called it an abattoir on ice, which was about right.

Frank turned into Glebe Point Road. Tired as I was, I still instinctively helped him to drive the car, checked the oncoming traffic and mentally changed down. Even crazier in this instance, because Frank's car was an automatic. Parker glanced at me as I twitched in the passenger seat. “Meredith's a bright man. Did a postgraduate degree in criminology at McGill University. He's a bit of a hothead but he had … he's got a bright future.”

I nodded and wished I hadn't. Inside my head, little popping noises were getting louder and louder. I could hardly hear what Frank was saying, and my own voice sounded thin and far off. “He saved my arse back there on the houseboat. That's for sure.”

“Care to tell me how he came to be there?”

“Missing persons case,” I said. “We're working on parallel lines. I mean our lines of inquiry intersected … Shit, Frank, I don't know what I'm saying.”

Parker pulled up outside my house. “It's all right. I'll have Meredith's number two give you a ring. Bloke named Wren, Ralph Wren. He's okay.”

“Make it the day after tomorrow,” I said. “I'm knackered.”

“Right. Need a hand?”

I opened the car door and almost fell out onto the pavement. Parker moved as if to get out of his seat, but I shook my fist at him. “I'm okay, Frank. Thanks for everything. Go home to Hilde. I'm okay I'll try to see Meredith tomorrow.”

Parker reached over and closed the door. The window had been open because I'd wanted the cold air on my flushed face. “Get some sleep, Cliff,” he said, “and don't do anything on your case until you talk to Wren.”

I saluted and lurched towards the front gate. I didn't have my gun or my oilskin any.more. I'd lost some brain cells and several inches of skin from various parts of my anatomy. But I had my key. I scratched and scraped until I got it in the lock and turned it. I was thinking of a hot bath. Maybe a hot drink as well. Rum and hot water. It'd probably knock me out and I'd drown in the bath. But the bath leaked and if I had one I'd have to mop up the water in the morning. I couldn't face that. Not a wet mop! Not ever again! I went into the musty, closed-all-day, no-fun-being-had-here-smelling house, turning on lights and trying to feel human.

The daybed in the sitting room beckoned me, but I made it to the kitchen and a tap. I washed my face at the sink and dried it on a dishcloth which smelled of cat food. Where was the cat? I looked around and called out him in a voice I hardly recognised. If I'd been a cat I wouldn't have come to that voice. The cat didn't. I drank two cups of water, staggered through to the day bed and lay down. I jerked up like a marionette to pull off my jacket and thought about turning off the lights. Thought about it, didn't do it I passed out into a black and grey zone of sonar booms, drifting smoke and bright flashing lights that made sounds like the little, ten-for-a-penny, Tom Thumb firecrackers I used to let off when I was a kid.

When I woke up, somewhere around eight a.m., I knew I should have had the bath, plus a massage and a long sleep in a soft, warm bed. The daybed is a hard, unyielding structure that Helen accused me of installing to deter casual, stopover visitors. Maybe she was right; she often was. I levered myself off the thing and moved towards the shower, bent over like a bell-ringer, hoping the hot water would help me to straighten up. In the kitchen the cat confronted me and demanded that I straighten up sooner, preferably with a can opener in my hand. I told it to get lost and went through to the cold, draughty bathroom to get myself some steam.

It took about an hour—steam, coffee with rum, toast with honey and a feeding of the cat—but eventually I felt better. Well enough, anyway, to sit down by the telephone and think about what to do next. It would have been nice to just sit there with my second rum-laced coffee and drift for a while. Let things sort themselves out in my mind, wait for connections. Instead, I rang Louise Madden in Leura and asked when I could see her.

“Why?” she said.

“To talk. I might be onto something, but I need to talk to you.”