The Bat (27 page)

“Who?”

“I don’t know, Officer. And if I did, I wouldn’t say. In our line of work discretion is a virtue. Which I’m sure you also appreciate. I’m so bad at names, but isn’t your name Ronny?”

“Harry. I have to talk to Sandra.” He struggled to his feet and almost knocked over the tray of beer Amy was carrying. He slumped across the table. “Have you got a phone number, pimp?”

Teddy waved Amy away. “On principle we don’t give clients the addresses or phone numbers of our girls. For safety reasons. You understand, don’t you?” Teddy was regretting not following his first instincts—he should have kept away from the drunken and difficult Norwegian.

“I understand. Gimme the number.”

Teddy smiled. “As I said, we don’t give—”

“Now!” Harry grabbed the lapels of the shiny gray suit jacket and blew a mixture of whiskey breath and vomit stench into Teddy’s face. An ingratiating string arrangement oozed from the speakers.

“I’ll count to three, Officer. If you haven’t let go by then I’ll call for Ivan and Geoff. That will mean an aerial exit through the back door. Outside the back door there’s a flight of steps. Twenty steep concrete steps.”

Harry grinned and tightened his grip. “Is that supposed to frighten me, you bloody pimp bastard? Look at me. I’m so pissed I can’t feel a thing. I’m fuckin’ indestructible, man. Geoff! Ivan!”

Shadows stirred behind the bar. As he turned his head to look, Teddy jerked himself free from Harry’s grip. He shoved and Harry reeled backward. He took his chair and the table with him as he crashed to the floor. Instead of getting up he stayed where he was, chuckling, until Geoff and Ivan arrived and sent Teddy an inquiring look.

“Get him out the back door,” Teddy said, watching as the policeman was picked up like a rag doll and thrown over the shoulder of a black bruiser in a dinner jacket.

“I don’t bloody know what’s wrong with people today,” Teddy said, straightening his crease-free suit jacket.

Ivan led the way and opened the door.

“What the hell’s this bloke had?” Geoff said. “He’s laughing so much he’s shaking.”

“Have to see how long he laughs then,” Ivan said. “Put him down here.”

Geoff lowered Harry to his feet, and he stood swaying in front of the two men.

“Can you keep a secret, mister?” Ivan said with a bashful smile. “I know this is a gangster cliché, but I hate violence.”

Geoff sniggered.

“Cut it out, Geoff. I really do. Just ask anyone who knows me. He can’t stand it, they’ll tell you. Ivan can’t sleep, gets depressed. The world is a tough enough place for any poor sod without us making things worse by breaking arms and legs, isn’t it. So. So just go home, and we won’t make any more trouble here. OK?”

Harry nodded and fumbled in his pockets for something.

“Even though you’re the gangster this evening,” Ivan said. “You!”

He poked a forefinger in Harry’s chest.

“You!” Ivan repeated and shoved a bit harder. The blond police officer teetered perilously.

“You!”

Harry stood rocking on his heels and waving his arms. He hadn’t turned to see what was behind him, he seemed to know already. A smile spread across his face as his glazed eyes met Ivan’s. He fell backward and groaned as he hit the first steps. Not a sound emerged the rest of the way down.

Joe heard the scratching at the front door, and peering through the glass at the new guest, bent double, he knew he’d made one of his rare mistakes. When he opened the door the guest collapsed against him. Had it not been for Joe’s low center of gravity they both would have taken a tumble. Joe managed to get Harry’s arm across his shoulder and drag him to a chair in reception where he could examine him closer. Not that the blond drunk had been a pretty sight when he checked in, but now he really did look bad. He had a deep gash on one elbow—Joe could see red flesh gleaming through—one cheek was swollen and blood was dripping from his nose onto filthy trousers. His shirt was torn and his chest rattled whenever he breathed. But at least he did—breathe.

“What happened?” Joe said.

“Fell down some stairs. No damage done, just need to rest a bit.”

Joe was no doctor, but judging from the breathing sounds he reckoned a rib or two had gone. He found some antiseptic ointment and plasters, patched up the guest as best he could and finally pushed some cotton wool up one nostril. Harry shook his head when Joe tried to give him a painkiller.

“Painkiller stuff in my room,” he gasped.

“You need a doctor,” Joe said. “I’ll—”

“No doctor. I’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”

“Your breathing doesn’t sound good.”

“Never has. Asthma. Give me a couple of hours in bed and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Joe sighed. He knew he was about to make mistake number two.

“Forget it,” he said. “You need more than a couple of hours. Anyway, it’s not your fault that steps are so bloody steep in Sydney. I’ll pop up in the morning.”

He helped the guest to his room, settled him on the bed and removed his shoes. On the table there were three empty and two unopened bottles of Jim Beam. Joe was teetotal, but had lived long enough to know that you couldn’t discuss anything with an alcoholic. He opened one of the bottles and put it on the bedside table. The bloke would be feeling awful when he woke up at all events.

“Crystal Castle. Hello.”

“Hello, may I speak to Margaret Dawson?”

“Speaking.”

“I can help your son if you tell me he killed Inger Holter.”

“What?! Who is this?”

“A friend. You have to trust me, Mrs. Dawson. If not, your son’s lost. Do you understand? Did he kill Inger Holter?”

“What is this? Is this supposed to be a joke? Who is Inger Holter?”

“You’re Evans’s mother, Mrs. Dawson. Inger Holter also had a mother. You and I are the only ones who can help your son. Tell me he killed Inger Holter! Do you hear me?!”

“I can hear you’ve been drinking. Now I’m going to ring the police.”

“Say it!”

“I’m putting the phone down now.”

“Say it … Bloody cow!”

Alex Tomaros put his arms behind his head and leaned back in the chair as Birgitta came into the office.

“Sit down, Birgitta.”

She sat on the chair in front of Tomaros’s modest desk, and Alex used the opportunity to study her more closely. He thought she looked tired. She had black bags under her eyes, seemed irritated and was even paler than normal.

“I was interviewed by a policeman a few days ago, Birgitta. A certain Mr. Holy, a foreigner. In the course of the conversation it emerged that he’d been speaking to some of the staff here and had information of … er, an indiscreet kind. We’re all interested, naturally, in the person who killed Inger Holter being found, but I would just like to draw your attention to the fact that any similar statements in the future will be interpreted as … disloyal. And I don’t need to tell you that, trade being tough right now, we cannot afford to pay people we don’t feel we can trust.”

Birgitta said nothing.

“A man rang earlier today and I happened to pick up the phone. He did try to distort his voice by slurring, but I recognized the accent. It was Mr. Holy again, and he asked to speak to you, Birgitta.”

Birgitta’s head shot up. “Harry? Today?”

Alex took off his glasses. “You know I have a soft spot for you, Birgitta, and I admit I’ve taken this … er, leak a bit personally. I had hoped that in time we might become good friends. So, don’t be stupid and destroy everything.”

“Did he ring from Norway?”

“I wish I could confirm that he had, but sad to say it sounded like an extremely local line. You know very well
that I have nothing to hide, Birgitta, nothing with any relevance for this case at any rate. And that’s what they’re after, isn’t it? It won’t help Inger if you blab about all the other stuff. So, can I rely on you, my dear Birgitta?”

“What is all the other stuff, Alex?”

He appeared surprised. “I thought Inger might have told you. About the drive.”

“What drive?”

“After work. I thought Inger was giving me quite a lot of encouragement and things got somewhat out of hand. All I was going to do was drive her home and I didn’t mean to frighten her, but she took my little joke a bit too literally, I’m afraid.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Alex, and I’m not sure I want to, either. Did Harry say where he was? Was he going to ring back?”

“Hey, hey, wait a moment. You’re on first-name terms with the man and your cheeks color up whenever I mention him. What’s actually going on here? Is there something between you two, or what?”

Birgitta rubbed her hands in anguish.

He leaned across the desk and put out a hand to pat her on the head, but she slapped it away with an irritated gesture.

“Cut that out, Alex. You’re an idiot, and I’ve told you that before. Be less of an idiot the next time he calls, please. And ask where I can get hold of him, right?” She got up and stomped out.

Speedy could scarcely believe his eyes when he entered the Cricket. Borroughs, behind the bar, shrugged his shoulders.

“He’s been sitting there for two hours,” he said. “He’s seriously tanked.”

Right in the corner at their regular table sat the man
who was the indirect cause of two of his pals ending up in the hospital. Speedy felt the new HK .45 ACP pistol in his calf holster and walked over to the table. The man’s chin had fallen onto his chest and he seemed to be asleep. A half-empty whiskey bottle was on the table in front of him.

“Hi,” Speedy shouted.

The man slowly raised his head and sent him an imbecilic smile.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he slurred.

“You’re sitting at the wrong table,” said Speedy, and stood his ground. He had a busy evening ahead of him and couldn’t risk being delayed by this idiot. Customers could come in at any moment.

“I want you to tell me something first,” said the man.

“Why should I?” Speedy felt the pistol pressing against his trouser leg.

“Because this is where you keep shop, because you just came in the door and therefore this is the time of the day when you’re at your most vulnerable because you have the goods on you and because you don’t want me to search you in front of all these witnesses. Stay where you are.”

It was only now that Speedy saw the muzzle of the Hi-Power which the man was holding in his lap and nonchalantly pointing straight at him.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know how often Andrew Kensington bought off you and when he made his last purchase.”

“Have you got a tape recorder on you, cop?”

The cop smiled. “Relax. Testimonies made under threat of a gun don’t count. The worst that can happen is that I shoot you.”

“OK, OK.”

Speedy could feel himself beginning to sweat. He weighed up the distance to his calf holster.

“Unless what I’ve heard is lies, he’s dead. So it can’t hurt,
can it. He was cautious, he didn’t want too much. He bought twice a week, one bag each time. Fixed routine.”

“When was the last time he bought before playing cricket here?”

“Three days before. He was going to buy the next day.”

“Did he ever buy from others?”

“Never. That I do know. This kind of thing is personal—a confidential matter, so to speak. Besides, he was a policeman and could hardly risk exposure.”

“So when he was here he was almost out of junk? Yet several days later he had enough for an overdose that would probably have killed him if a cable hadn’t done it for him. How do you get that to tally?”

“He ended up in hospital. It was the need for junk that made him leg it. Who knows, maybe he had some in reserve anyway.”

The cop sighed, exhausted. “You’re right,” he said, putting the pistol in the inside pocket of his jacket and grabbing the glass in front of him. “Everything in this world is permeated with these
maybes
. Why can’t someone just cut through the crap and say this is how it is, full stop, two and two are whatever they are and that’s that. It would make life easier for a whole lot of people, believe me.”

Speedy started to raise his trouser leg, but changed his mind.

“And what happened to the syringe?” the cop mumbled as though to himself.

“What?” said Speedy.

“We never found a syringe at the crime scene. Maybe he flushed it down the toilet. As you said—a cautious man. Even when he was about to die.”

“Are you sharing?” Speedy asked, taking a seat.

“It’s your liver,” the cop said, sliding the bottle over.

Harry ran through the smoke into the tight passage. The band was playing so loud everything around him was vibrating. There was a sour smell of sulphur, and the clouds were hanging so low that he was banging into them with his head. Through the wall of noise one sound could still be heard, an intense grinding which had found an unoccupied frequency. It was the grinding of teeth on teeth and chains being dragged along the tarmac. A pack of dogs bayed behind him.

The passage became narrower and narrower, and in the end he had to run with his arms out in front so as not to get wedged between the high red walls. He looked up. From windows way above the brick walls small heads protruded. They were waving green and gold flags and singing to the deafening music.

“This is the lucky country, this is the lucky country, we live in the lucky country.”

Harry heard gnashing behind him. He screamed and fell. To his surprise everything around him was dark, and instead of a rough landing on tarmac he continued to fall. He must have tumbled into a pit. And either Harry was moving very slowly or the pit was very deep because he was
still in motion. The music at the surface became more and more distant, and as his eyes adapted to the darkness he saw that the sides of the pit had windows through which he could see into other people.

Jeez, am I going to fall right the way through the earth? Harry wondered.

“You’re Swedish,” said a woman’s voice.

Harry looked around, and as he did so, the light and the music returned. He was standing in an open square, it was night, and a band was playing on a stage behind him. He was facing a shop window, a TV shop window, to be more precise, with a dozen different sets tuned to a variety of channels.