Cross Off (12 page)

When Dunlop met Ann at the airport he was startled by the transformation. The luxuriant dark tresses had become a set of bouncing, blonde curls. The contrast with the olive skin and dark eyes and eyebrows was startling. She wore jeans and a black silk shirt and looked thinner. Dunlop commented on this as soon as they were in the car. The actual reunion had amounted to no more than a circumspect kiss.

'I got sick,' Ann said. 'Pining for you.'

'Play hell with your passport, all this.'

Ann laughed. 'It's all reversible. Particularly the weight. I tend to go up and down depending on whether I'm happy or blue. It's good to see you, Luke.'

Dunlop's emotions were mixed. The powerful
attraction he felt for her was spilling over into something else, a concern. He was almost regretting the impulsive, hormone-driven decision to bring her into the operation. And there was another confusion. Ava had changed. She was quieter, more serious, impressively brave. Dunlop felt himself drawn to her and doubted his ability to resist if she offered herself to him sexually as she had done in the past. 'You're a user,' his ex-wife Katarina had told him. 'You use people. You don't really care about them.' Was he using Ann to run interference, to keep him, more or less, on the personal and professional rails? He wasn't sure.

He reached for Ann's hand and squeezed it. 'Got your gun?'

Ann didn't answer. Dunlop was driving one of the pool of cars that had been made available—a green Ford Escort. He started the engine and joined the queue leaving the car park. On the road, he honked impatiently at a slow-moving station wagon, cursed and swung abruptly into another lane, cutting across in front of a taxi.

'Luke, what's the matter?'

'Nothing. You'll just have to learn how Sydney traffic moves.'

'I've been in Sydney before,' Ann said. 'And I drove a tourist mini-bus in Rome for six months. Don't tell me about city traffic.'

'I'm sorry. I'm edgy.'

'Understandable. You know what I think we should do?'

'What?'

'Go somewhere and fuck. Get that out of the way. Then get down to business. Like in
Annie Hall
, the
Woody Allen picture. Woody says to Diane Keaton at the start of their date that they should kiss now and they'll be able to digest their food better, or something like that. Have you seen it?'

'No.'

'You haven't lived.'

Dunlop laughed and he slowed down, looking for a motel.

Later, Dunlop pulled the sheet up over their naked, sweating bodies. 'Can't afford to catch a chill,' he said. 'We're not in the tropics now.'

'Don't treat me as if I'm some sort of exotic flower, Luke. I've ice-skated in Sweden in the winter. Knock it off.'

'Sorry. We'd better get going.'

Over an instant coffee in the motel room and during the short drive to Paddington, Dunlop filled Ann in on the planning to date. Ava was staying in a city hotel. She was to move to Paddington and start visiting some of her old habitat—a coffee bar, her hairdresser, her doctor. On the assumption that Grant Reuben had been involved in setting up the Cooktown attack, word was to be passed to him that Ava could identify her assailant.

'Which is true,' Ann said.

Dunlop nodded. 'Tallish, medium colouring, looks fit, is all she can give us verbally—but she's one hundred and one per cent certain she'll know him in the flesh.'

'Doesn't give us much to go on. Rules out Danny De Vito types and basketball players, I suppose.'

'There's a bit more. They ran what little we've got
on him past the medicos. Regular meals, heavy sweating, ripe breath, the needle cap—the thinking is that he's a diabetic. The sweating's consistent with what's called an insulin reaction, or a hypoglycaemic attack—low blood sugar. Could explain why he backed off.'

'And why he missed when he shot at you.'

'Maybe. Nearly there. You'll like the house.'

'If you're saying that because it's up on stilts, I'll thump you.'

Vance Belfante could not get the zipper on his trousers to close. The suit he'd worn to prison was tight all over. The track pants he'd been wearing had concealed from him how much weight he'd gained. He swore as he dressed, preparatory to leaving, Grant Reuben having posted his bail and a similar surety for Frost, who was in the prison hospital suffering from influenza. Vance went impatiently through the release processing and joined Reuben in a waiting room. It was the first unbarred room he'd been in for weeks and he turned slowly, letting the feeling of freedom seep into him.

Grant Reuben was not happy. The old sleekly confident Belfante of Kings Cross was one thing; the chain-smoking remand prisoner in a tracksuit was another. Both dealable with. This crumpled fat man, bulging out of his clothes and looking belligerent already, was a different proposition. He extended his hand. 'Congratulations, Vance.'

Belfante's handshake was brief. 'For what? Conspiracy carries ten years.'

'It's bullshit. They're bluffing. It'll all just melt away. You're free.'

'Yeah. Well, let's go.'

'We've got a bit to talk about.'

Vance lit a cigarette and coughed. 'Tell me in the nearest pub.'

They rode in Reuben's BMW. Belfante favoured flashier cars, but he had to admit the ride was good. Mobile phone. He wondered how much the car cost. The old Grant appeared to be doing pretty well, although he was a lousy driver, nervous, not making full use of the car's power. Vance ached to be behind the wheel again. It was his number two priority, after a drink.

Installed in the saloon bar of the Maroubra Tavern, Belfante bought a double Jamesons. Reuben opted for light beer. Vance sank the whiskey in two gulps and ordered a schooner. He lit a cigarette from the butt of the last. 'So, tell me what I should know.'

'One of the bail conditions is that you can't go anywhere near Ava.'

Belfante almost choked as he inhaled smoke and swallowed beer. 'I can't go near my own wife? Can they do that?'

'Yes. If you do and she reports it you go back inside.'

'Shit! What else?'

Reuben explained something of the business problems—incursions by competitors like Weiss, just as Vance had feared; increased pay-offs to providers of 'protection', a projected audit by the taxation authorities.

'Great, just great.' Belfante finished his schooner and looked at the lawyer who was still only halfway through his middy. 'Are you drinking, or what?'

Reuben took a dutiful sip. 'There's more.'

Belfante groaned. 'I was better off inside. What the fuck else could there be?'

'Shelley Lamb's filed for a maintenance order for herself and the child.'

Belfante laughed. The laugh interfered with his respiration and he choked. He leaned back in his chair, wheezing, gasping for air. His fat, flushed face turned purple as he struggled to breathe. Reuben pounded his back. Belfante hit him with a punch that sent Reuben sprawling and knocked over their glasses. The barman shouted a threat and other drinkers backed away as Belfante lurched up, still gasping but gaining some control.

'It's okay. It's okay,' he panted. 'A mistake.' He sucked in a deep, tortured breath and helped Reuben to his feet. The shiny fabric of the lawyer's suit jacket was dripping beer. 'Sorry, mate. Sorry. I'm under a lot of pressure and when you thumped me back I just . . . Let's get you another drink.'

Reuben accepted the apology, allowed himself to be consoled, but he'd made his decision. This slob had had his day.

Tate stacked the folding bicycle in the storeroom of his block of flats. He had ridden it ten times around a two kilometre track in Centennial Park and felt the better for the exercise. He'd made one stop for a breather—and to pick up the package which was placed in the clump of long grass as he'd directed. He entered his flat and took off his helmet. He shrugged the backpack from his shoulders, removed the envelope and tossed it on his bed. After showering, he tested his sugar level, which was low as he'd
expected following such a strenuous work-out. He made coffee and added two spoons of sugar, permissible under the circumstances. The ten thousand was delivered satisfactorily. Tate frowned over the slip of paper with the words
MAKE CONTACT
printed on it in block capitals. He didn't like being instructed.

He considered his options as he sipped the hot, sweet coffee. At a pinch, he could go to Tassie now, find a cheaper place than in the area he had in mind. Safer in one way, not in another. The woman knew what he looked like; so, possibly, did Dunlop. What if they turned up his army record somehow? They could do anything with those fucking computers nowadays. Safer to wipe the slate. Cross them off. And then there was the high country above the Huon Valley, the rugged, timbered slopes on which he'd set his heart. He'd be buggered if he'd settle for second best. He went out and called Reuben from a different phone booth to the one he'd used before.

'Making contact,' Tate said.

'Yeah, um. Couple of things. Look, it might be better if you called me on my mobile number.'

Tate laughed. 'You worried about a bug?'

'Well, yeah.'

Christ, what an amateur
, Tate thought. 'If you're bugged, mate, they'll be picking up your bloody car phone loud and clear. I'm in a public booth, you find one and ring this number.' He dictated it. 'Make it snappy and they've got no hope of getting onto it. Clear?'

Tate hung up and jiggled coins in his hand. When Reuben rang he still sounded edgy. 'Ah, the word is the . . . subject can identify you and is willing to do so.'

Tate said nothing.

'Secondly, the client wants the more drastic option to be taken.'

Tate smiled. The luck was holding. 'It'll cost him.'

'The client offers twenty but insists on absolute removal. You follow?'

Prick
, Tate thought.
Game-playing prick
. Well, he could play games with the best of them. 'I read you. Half up front, as before.'

'Right. Point of collection is . . . ?'

Tate reflected. He'd enjoyed the ride, a change from running. He felt
good
It'd be good to do it really early in the morning in a day or so when his bike-riding muscles were ready again. 'Like today. Make it seven-thirty a.m., day after tomorrow. Park opens at seven.'

Time for me to make the drop and get clear
, Reuben thought. 'Check,' he said and hung up.

Tate said, 'Fuck you,' into the dead phone.

Grant Reuben had found a phone box in Elizabeth Bay, only a few blocks from his office in Potts Point and not far from Bayswater Road where he'd dropped Vance Belfante that morning. He dialled the number of the club. Belfante answered. 'Grant? Shit, you should see the fucking mess this place's in. I thought you were looking after things.'

That's the last piece of crap I take from you
, Reuben thought. 'Never mind that, Vance. You know the bloke who did the job on Ava? I've got a line on him. You interested?'

14

T
he house was in Little Lloyd Street, not far from the Victoria Barracks. In fact two houses had been taken over, tiny coachmen's cottages with narrow fronts, two rooms upstairs and two down. From the street, they appeared to be separate but there were connecting doors on both levels. The narrow street had been closed to vehicular traffic and residents parked their cars in reserved areas in nearby side streets. Dunlop and Ann approached the house on foot.

'Ava moves in this afternoon,' he said. 'Roy Waterford's already installed in the house next door.'

Ann surveyed the houses—sand-blasted brick, colonial colours on the woodwork and wrought iron, deeply worn stone steps leading to the doors. 'Cute,' she said.

'Let's hope Ava thinks so. There's a narrow lane at the back. Tempting, but easy to watch. You can't get really close in a car, which we think is a plus.'

Dunlop opened the door of Number 4 and handed Ann the key. He stepped aside and let her enter first. It took only a few minutes to inspect the place—the front door led straight into a small living room with a
sofa and two chairs, a coat stand and a coffee table. Built-in shelves held a TV and VCR and a sound system; an eat-in kitchen nestled at the back of the building; a pocket handkerchief bathroom was tucked in under the narrow staircase. The upstairs bedrooms both had small balconies and were warm and bright, sunshine flooding in through the French windows and overhead skylights.

Ann looked down on a miniature paved courtyard, well-stocked with potted plants. 'And whose room is whose?'

'You switch around. That's the safest.'

Ann dropped her bag in the back bedroom and they went downstairs. Dunlop tapped on the door, scarcely visible beside the coat stand in the living room. The door opened and a man stepped through. He was of medium height and muscular, wearing white jeans and a purple T-shirt. His fair hair was cropped short; he wore an earring, lipstick and eye shadow.

'Roy Waterford, Ann Torrielli,' Dunlop said.

Waterford held out his hand. Ann shook it, struggling to conceal her surprise.

Waterford laughed pleasantly. 'Pleased to meet you, Ann. Do I detect a certain chemistry between you two? Hmm?'

'None of your business,' Dunlop growled. 'Roy's a poofter, but I know he could knock the shit out of me in thirty seconds. Isn't that right, Roy?'

'You bet.'

'I see,' Ann said. 'Well, it's always good to have a man around the house.'

Waterford laughed again. 'Only sometimes. I've got some Ava Belfante outfits upstairs that would
knock your eyes out. Not exactly my taste, but there you go. Wigs, too. D'you think she'll be blonde or redhead, Lucas?'

Dunlop shrugged. 'She was a redhead yesterday but today, who knows? All dolled up, Roy can pass for Ava in a poor light.'

'Unkind,' Waterford said.

Dunlop went back to the kitchen and began making coffee. 'It could be a useful strategy. Our guy thinks he's up against two helpless women and in fact he's facing two armed officers of the law.'

Ann frowned. 'Is that what we are? What are we, exactly?'

'Don't ask,' Dunlop said.

Ann looked at him. 'Where will you be?'