Roll With It (30 page)

‘They’re the ones from the white Ford.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Laver said. ‘I’d only seen them huddled in their car, driving. They’re who spooked Stig, not me.’

Watching the two men leave, one saying something earnestly to Barry as they started to move away, Barry not looking happy. The men climbing into the Ford and moving towards the exit.

Jake asking, ‘Are you going to follow them?’

‘No, not now. I reckon I might follow you home. It could be a good night to stay in and have a quiet one, Jake. And don’t answer the door.’

‘Really? Do you think I’m in danger?’

‘Let’s hope not. But best to be cautious.’

‘Mr Laver,’ Jake said urgently, ‘something is going on here. Last night, I was here in the middle of the night with my friend, Lou—’

‘The hippie chick? You were spending the night with her?’ Laver’s respect for the nerdy kid found new legs.

Jake blushed furiously, from his throat to his face. ‘Not like that. We were putting stickers on the shelves, an environmental campaign, and then Barry showed up and we had to hide. He met some guys and Lou said it was Stig’s voice. They were talking about a deal. Lou thought it was drugs.’

‘Did you see any faces you could identify?’

‘No, we were in a storeroom, listening.’

‘Do you remember the exact conversation?’

‘Not really. I was terrified.’

‘They didn’t get a whiff that you were there? That you heard this?’

‘No. Barry turned the alarm back on and they left. They definitely didn’t see us.’

Laver thought for a while. ‘Okay. I’ll try to talk to some of my people. Now grab your stuff and I’ll wait for you. And if you see those guys near your home, ring me immediately, okay?’

***

Laver was making a stir-fry for dinner, only just having hung up after talking to Cecy and hearing about her findings. As usual, nobody else in the Victorian police force, including Dolfin, was taking his calls, even if he had much stronger evidence of crimes brewing. Now the phone rang and he was briefly hopeful, but no, it was Mrs Macleod saying it was only her, from downstairs.

Laver cradled the receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he cooked. ‘How are you, Lucy?’

‘Oh, I’m okay Tony dear, thank you, and I’m sorry to phone at tea time, but there’s a young man who I don’t like the look of and he’s just outside. I don’t like the look of him at all.’

‘Outside your flat?’

‘Yes, dear, he was hanging around the security door, I think waiting for somebody to go in or out, but now he’s back on the street.’

‘Can you describe him to me?’

‘Quite tall, suntanned and very mean looking. A strange hairstyle – and
orange
hair, if you don’t mind – and very unshaven. I’m sorry to say he has several tattoos.’

‘I’ll take care of it, Lucy.’

‘Thank you, pet. Tony dear, is somebody nasty looking for you?’

‘I’m afraid that’s likely, Mrs Macleod. Sorry about this.’

‘Well, it’s not your fault. It’s the uniform, love. I’m sure if they knew you, they’d know you’re a lovely young man. But everybody hates the cops and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Umm.’

‘I suppose this is probably some friend of the young man you slaughtered recently.’

Slaughtered, thought Laver. Jesus. ‘You knew about that, Mrs Macleod?’

‘Oh yes. I didn’t think the photo of you in the paper was very flattering.’

‘I was only a cadet when it was taken.’

‘Much more handsome now, love.’

‘Thanks, Lucy.’

‘You’ve grown into your face well. You’re a man now, love.’

‘Sometimes more than others.’

‘Oh, so you say. How is that young lady of yours?’

‘Gone, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh dear. Again. Oh well. And your boy?’

‘Haven’t seen him for a while either. Listen, I’d better go and say hello to our friend, hey?’

‘Of course, Tony. Toodles.’

***

The Wild Man had given up on the security door.

He wandered back out and turned into the side street, where a ramp led down to the apartments’ underground car park.

The Wild Man hoisted himself onto the brick wall to the left of the ramp and then carefully picked his way along the edge of a fern garden, the ramp ever further below him so that he wouldn’t have wanted to overbalance and take the three-metre drop.

But now he was able to jump the low brick wall and he was in the lobby, on the residents’ side of the security door. Finally in good shape to get the jump on this prick, to meet on the Wild Man’s terms. Wildie moved along the side of the building, checking there was nobody in the pool or in the gardens that filled the centre of the complex. Noting the numbers on the doors and heading up the stairs, to the second floor.

And finding the cop sitting on an old green couch on the landing outside one of the apartment doors, holding two beers, apparently having watched Wildie from the moment he’d arrived on the stair landing. The cop in a singlet, showing muscle, and shorts. Holding out a stubbie and saying, ‘Here. You want one? The uniforms are still a couple of minutes away.’

Wildie still surprised but managing to keep his hard stare going, saying, ‘I might keep moving. But good to know where you live.’

The cop saying, ‘You only had to ask. Buzz 2-3-0 and the key button next time. Save you the climb.’

Laver enjoying watching the struggle behind the man’s face as he tried to regain the upper hand.

Wildie wondering how this kept happening with this fucking cop. Finally saying, ‘You might want to watch your back while you’re riding that bike of yours around, pig.’

‘You threatening me? I thought you only took on defenceless dogs, road ragers and used-car salesmen. Why wait until I’m riding? I’m right here.’

‘Now is not the time. But it will happen.’

‘What I don’t get,’ Laver said, ‘is why you’re even bothering to be here. You saw those guys at the supermarket this afternoon and bolted. You were more scared of them than you are of me.’ ‘I’m not scared of you.

I’m not scared of anything,’ the Wild Man snarled. ‘You’d do fucking well to remember that, pig. I only came here to say why don’t you just pull your head in, and your little grocery mate too. I don’t give a shit if you are a cop. You’d do well not to keep crossing my path.’

‘Or what?’

‘You don’t want to know the answer to that question.’

‘Hmm, threatening a police officer. A charge all on its own, along with trespass and the rest,’ Laver cocking his head stagily. ‘Last chance for a beer if you want one. I’m pretty sure I can hear the sirens.’

Wildie hated himself for it but he got out of there. Again.

***

Stig was on Smith Street, watching the front of the shop. He was waiting for Rachel, the manager, to disappear. No sense being forced to go over the potentially unpleasant details of those missing funds from when he left Friends of the Planet.

He had enough on his mind, still trying not to panic at the thought of Brunetti and Wilson, definitely Jenssen men, talking to Barry at the supermarket. Unable to believe Paxton had sold them out within a day and wondering if – shit – maybe it wasn’t him, maybe it was the dweeb who worked for him and kept hanging around Lou?

Finally, Rachel disappeared out the side door and then reappeared in a Toyota Prius, turning left into Smith and heading towards the city. Stig crossed the road and bought a coffee, sitting at one of the tables near the front of the shop as he looked around for Louie.

She finally came down the stairs from the first floor, Stig watching those legs of hers in stripey stockings, a purple miniskirt over the top. She saw him and visibly sagged, but walked over and sat down.

‘You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place. What are you doing here?’

‘Came to see you,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think you weren’t here.’

‘I was upstairs. A meeting about protesting the bay dredge is taking forever. Stig, I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘You did the other night. More than talk.’

‘I told you. A mistake. And then a bunch of pigs turned up.’

‘They weren’t accusing me of anything. I’m here, aren’t I? It was nothing.’

‘There was a murder in the paper that day. Some bloke out at Tullamarine.’

‘Which I know nothing about. Jesus, Louie. You think I’m a killer these days?’

‘I have no idea what you are, Stig. That’s the problem.’

‘Who’s this kid you’ve been hanging around with?’

‘That again? What is it with you guys and Jake?’

‘Jake. That’s him. Hanging out with cops last time I saw him.’

‘When? You were watching Jake?’

‘At his little supermarket. Looking very cosy with a cop.’

‘What were you doing at the supermarket, Stig? I didn’t think the sort of thing you sell could be bought in aisle 3.’

Regretting it the moment she said it.

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Louie? What do you know about anything I might be trying to sell?’

She shut up.

‘Did little lover boy tell you about that? A bit of pillow talk from the Groc-o-Mart?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, babe? What was that?’

‘It’s nothing to do with Jake.’

‘Louie, I think we should get out of here and have a little talk. You clearly know things that I need to know.’

‘I’m not going anywhere with you, Stig. Piss off or I’ll be the one calling the cops. You can watch me chat with them, seeing as that’s apparently your new thing. Watching my friends.’

Stig had a look on his face she hadn’t seen before and Louie wondered if she should run, if she’d have any hope of getting away, but the noise from upstairs saved her. The twenty people from the bay dredge meeting clattering down the stairs, finishing several conversations, but then seeing her and asking if she felt like a drink. A wind-down beer after the meeting?

And Lou was relieved to say, absolutely, let’s go right now, to the astonishment and delight of the several male activists who had dreamed of this moment for some time. They were so pleased, they barely even noticed the eyes of the man Lou was leaving behind at the table.

But Lou did.

Stig just watched her go.

Laver fought his first instinct: to phone Dolfin and report
that Stig and his mate knew where he lived. Flipper probably wouldn’t take his call anyway. Laver thinking he needed to somehow take the initiative in this situation, not sit at home wondering who they were and when they might turn up again. But without resources, without ideas.

Laver not used to feeling alone and vulnerable, and not coping too well now the thug had gone and his adrenalin had ebbed. He tried watching television but couldn’t. He poured a whisky. He tried reading, but quit after two pages of reading repeatedly but without any memory. He dug through his vinyl collection and put on a new LP by the Black Keys. He wondered where Marcia was right now. He ate the stir-fry he’d made. He felt it welling up inside him. He wondered how he and Marcia had unravelled so fast. He had another whisky. He sat on the couch and stared at the night. He thought about ringing Cecy or Damian or somebody who might actually take his call. He wondered where Coleman’s ghost was. Saw his bullet hit the man again, for the thousandth time.

He could feel it approaching, rising through his throat.

A text message chimed onto his mobile phone and as always, every time his phone rang or a text arrived, his breath caught: Marcia! But, as always, it wasn’t. It was his gym enthusing that he should sign up five friends. Laver deleted the message while wondering if he even had that many friends.

Marcia. He was marvelling at how many red Mazda 323s were on the road, so that he thought he saw Marcia driving past every time he set foot outside his apartment. Having to check the number plates before he could relax. Haunted by Mazdas. It was getting closer. He thought about that man’s hand on her arm, the familiarity of it. Cop instincts telling him to stop bullshitting himself, that he knew, even if he had no proof. He thought about how much he’d love to be able to talk to his mother right now, given his dad would be something worse than useless.

His brain, the bastard, drifting back, to before Marcia. Not fair, so not fair. His brain not on his side at all. Needing to have his shit together in case Stig’s mate came back. But he couldn’t stop himself from thinking the single word: Callum.

And that was it. Laver was suddenly crying violently, uncontrollably, explosively, as though something had snapped inside of him and the ghost of Wesley Coleman, his lost son, his ruined career, Marcia and every other hurt he’d been carrying around for so long came gushing out in a vomit of tears.

Laver curled up on the couch and cried and cried and cried: huge sobs from his stomach that surprised him in their savagery and rage and pain. He was close to retching while crying, the physical reaction was so intense. Snot poured from his nose, his eyes stung, but he didn’t fight it. Didn’t fight at all. Drowned in his tears. He let himself cry. He let himself fall into abject misery. Surrendered to it.

He had no idea how long it lasted. All he knew was that the sobs would finally lessen and then subside so that he lay there, breathing shakily, trying to regain himself – and then he’d start uncontrollably sobbing again. He was helpless, exhausted, either shaking with grief or recovering before the next onslaught.