Wet Graves (13 page)

Tobin's face took on the plum colour again. He gulped his drink and poured some more. I'd found the soft spot, but I doubted it could do me any good. ‘You're history, Hardy. Prue Harper's going to be found dead, and these pictures and the tape are going to support the view that you killed her. And you're not going to be in a position to contradict that view, if you follow me.”

I shook my head. “Fantasy.”

Tobin smiled. ‘You're not going to tell us you never killed anybody?”

It wasn't a subject I thought a lot about. I'd killed plenty of men in Malaya, but that had been in war, which was different, or so they told you and so you told yourself. As a civilian I'd killed two men. One had been pointing a loaded gun at the man standing next to me and the other, still worse, had been all set up to shoot me.

Jackson said, “We've got your gun, Cliff.”

“Means nothing.”

Tobin leaned forward from where he was sitting. He kept out of kicking range, but I could smell the tobacco and whisky fumes like a rich, sickly breeze. He was still agitated and angry. “They'll call your mate Parker. And he'll have to admit that you questioned him about the witness protection program. A good barrister'll get that out of him and no more.”

Jackson was getting into the spirit of it as well. He finished his drink and Tobin poured him another, a big one. “And Lou Campisi'll say you asked him about where to find me. Of course, he won't mention the boat.”

“Was that a set-up, too?”

“Let's say we studied up on you.” Tobin was calming down. He sucked in air and the flush in his swollen, distended face receded. “Learned your habits. You were a sitting duck for something like this, Hardy. Parker aside, you're not popular with the force. And inside the force
he's
not exactly a pin-up boy. I don't think you've got too many friends, anywhere you look.”

“I've got a few in the press.”

“Wankers,” Tobin said. “And a dead private eye's not much of a story. They're
supposed
to be dead, or in gaol. Didn't I read a survey on the professions somewhere? Rating them in public esteem? I don't think private detective even got a mention. I know that journalists were near the bottom.”

“They'd rate above bent cops.”

“Let's get on with it, Barry,” Jackson said.

I needed time. A cold fear was spreading through me, partly because time had suddenly become so valuable. And not because I had any idea of what to do with it. I just wanted the time. “What about Lenko? How does he fit into all this?”

“Fuck him,” Jackson said.

Tobin nodded. “This is a housekeeping exercise, you might say. Also something of an experiment.”

I seized on that as something to hold back the second hand. “Experiment?”

“Sure. If it works the way we think it will, this tape thing has endless possibilities.”

“You're dreaming.”

“That's right, Hardy.” Tobin had regained his cool and was motor-mouthing again. “You have to dream to get anywhere. Look at you—a cut-rate private eye. All you've done in the past ten years is pay off a bit of your mortgage. The opportunities you must've let slip by …”

“Limitless,” I said. For a moment I wondered whether there was any chance of convincing them I'd do a deal. But I rejected the idea; dirty deals were Tobin and Jackson's bread and butter. They'd spot a faker as soon as he opened his mouth. I could think of only one other tack to take. “I can see how this little plot puts you in the clear, Barry. But I can't see so much in it for Rhino.” I moved as much of my body as I could to get a good straight view of Jackson, who was still playing with switches. He didn't even look at me.

“Rhino'll have to go away for a while,” Tobin said. “Somewhere nice. But the heat'll go out of this pretty soon and he'll be able to come back.”

I wasn't just sitting there passively all this time. I was moving my wrists and arms, trying to work some slack, wondering whether I could slip my hands out of the jacket and oilskin and through the cuffs. No chance. Arch knew what he was doing when he put them on. He was probably an ex-copper too. The back of the chair didn't feel too strong but there was no chance of breaking it with two able-bodied men watching me. If I'd been Houdini I'd have had a picklock under my thumb nail and the joke would be on them. But I can't even do card tricks. All I could do was talk. “I still think you're crazy trying on something like this. Too complicated. This new corruption committee they've got could hear little stories.”

This time Jackson did look at me, but only to laugh. “That committee'll hear what the right people want it to hear. And in the end it'll do what it's told. Right, Barry?”

Tobin was about to nod when I scored my first real hit on him. “Hope you're getting all this on tape, Rhino.”

Tobin's eyes popped. Veins stood out in his forehead as he turned to look at Jackson. “You'd better have turned that fucking thing off …”

Jackson looked flustered. “It's okay, Barry. I can wipe it. I …”

“He's taking out some insurance of his own, Bazza,” I said.

“Shut up, Hardy.” Tobin growled. “Rhino, I …”

“What the hell's that?” As intent as he was on the confrontation with Tobin, Jackson couldn't ignore the noise outside. I heard shouts and a splash and then the blue, blinking light of a police beacon flashed in the window. “Shit,” Jackson said, “there's some fuckin' D and a couple of uniforms down there.”

That was enough encouragement for me. I slung myself out of the chair as far as I could, which wasn't far but enough to get a kick at the table Tobin was sitting at. His ashtray and glass went flying through the air and I nearly tore every ligament in my arms when I wrenched at the back of the chair, trying to pull the handcuffs clear. I broke the plastic part away from the metal part and was almost loose. Tobin roared something and I swung around, kicking at him, shouting myself and trying to create as much uproar as I could. I swung back the other way and was free, apart from having my arms pinned behind me, being attached to a small section of chair and having cramp in my legs. I bullocked my way across the cockpit and butted Rhino Jackson in the midsection. He was holding a gun at the time, which I hadn't known or I mightn't have done it. The gun went off and the noise in the confined space was like a rocket launch. A window exploded.

After that, time and certain other things became very confused. Maybe there was an answering shot from a nervous trigger finger below, maybe not. Both Jackson and Tobin made for the door and fought to get through it and down he steps. I followed, although I didn't know why. I was slow and clumsy. Jackson turned and fired at me, but I was falling downstairs at the time and he missed. When I hit the bottom I struggled up and out through the open door onto the back part of the deck where I'd hidden when I first came aboard.

I fell again, unable to grab at any support. I felt my head hit something hard and warm blood flow down into my right eye. It would've been a perfect moment to shoot me. But no one did. I was lying on the hard, wooden deck with my blood flowing, my arms sending up pain messages to my brain and only one eye working. From this low vantage point, I saw a uniformed policeman present himself in front of Jackson, who had somehow got ahead of Tobin, and shout at both of them to stop where they were. Tobin shoved Jackson forward and the cop shot him in the chest. Moving with an agility I could hardly believe, Tobin swung his legs over the side. The cop was standing stock-still, shocked at what he'd done. I expected to hear a splash, but instead there was the roar of an engine firing and a churning noise as a boat took off across the water, away from flying bullets and falling bodies and flowing blood.

12

“You must be Hardy. Is that right?”

The big man bending over me was breathing heavily and sweating. I'd seen him before—in Arundel Street in the company of the widowed Mrs Glover and her unpleasant son Clive.

I wriggled up into a sitting position. I had an aching head, a closing eye and pain almost everywhere. “And you must be Detective Sergeant Meredith. I'm very pleased to see you.”

“Yeah, I bet you are. Could you tell me what the hell's going on here? I came looking for you and …”

“For me? Why?”

You left your name at the morgue. I wanted to know why you were interested in Glover. Then I saw the sheet from the Woolloomooloo station that you were on the scene when another guy died, and in sight of the bridge. We have to talk, Hardy.”

“Sure. But how did you know to come here?”

“I put out a marker on your car. A cruiser spotted it up the road and called in. We're pretty well organised these days.”

The flashing blue light had been turned off, but there was still a lot of commotion on and around the jetty and on the houseboat. The sorts of protesting voices that I'd heard before were being raised again and the cops were talking in their quiet, emotionless way. I'd really spoiled some folks' night. Meredith took a look over my shoulder at the handcuffs.

“Can you locate a guy named Arch?” I said. “He should have the key to these bloody things. How come you piled in like this? I thought you just wanted a chat.”

“If you mean Arch Bailey, we've got him in custody. He's wanted. That's what I mean. I arrived and found all these bloody crims swarming around—Bailey, Fred Murdoch, Sammy Camarella. Couple of them ponced up in red jackets like they were in Las Vegas. All on the wanted list. I called in for support. “What's going on, Hardy?”

I grinned at him. “You just raided Barry Tobin's gambling boat. You've probably got the odd magistrate and MP in chains down there.”

“Shit.” Meredith pushed his lank fair hair back from his eyes.He was younger than I'd thought, at least ten years younger than I. His bulk had misled me. In the dim light he looked almost boyish. “Who cares” he said. “Those old pricks have had it coming for years. Their protection's just about run out.”

“Good.” I said. I jiggled the short chain on the cuffs. “Arch?”

Meredith's eyes went suddenly shrewd. “Still, I could be in the shit over this. You wouldn't have anything else to tell me, would you, Hardy?”

“A lot, on this and the bridge business. But first you should send someone up to get a tape from the wheelhouse.”

“The what?”

“Up there!” I jerked my head to indicate the direction and then I saw Rhino Jackson. Two men, one in uniform, one in a dinner suit, were bending over him in attitudes that suggested he was a lost cause. Meredith gave urgent commands to a couple of the cops, and one returned with a key to the handcuffs. When I was free I moved across to where Jackson lay.They'd put a blanket over the lower part of his body. The policeman who had shot him was young, pale-faced and scared. He looked up and saw me.

“You saw it, didn't you? You saw what happened.”

“Yes,” I said. “I saw it. It wasn't your fault. Don't worry, son.” I looked at the man in the dinner suit.

“I'm a doctor.” he said. “I'm afraid he hasn't got very long. The bullet must have hit something vital.”

The young cop turned away, and I bent over Jackson. His eyes opened. “Hardy?” he whispered.

“Rhino.”

“Tobin.” The voice was a harsh whisper with no force behind it. “Get Tobin … kill Prue Harper.”

“Tobin's going to kill her?”

“Has to. She knows …”

“Where is she?”

Meredith was beside me now. “What's this?” he said.

“Shush. Where is she, Rhino?”

A trickle of blood came from Jackson's mouth and his eyes closed.

“He's going,” the doctor said.

Jackson's lips pursed as if he was about to spit. I bent my head down. I could feel his breath, the faintest, sour smelling whisper, on my face. “Budget …”

“Budget …” I repeated.

The bloodless lips trembled, pursed, relaxed, then firmed up again. “Back … packer.”

“I know it,” Meredith said. “Budget Backpacker. Victoria Street. The Cross. Hardy …”

“I think he's gone,” the doctor said. He checked Jackson's pulse, shook his head and pulled the blanket up over the white, still face with the dark trickle running from the slack mouth.

The young cop jammed his hands in his pockets and stood like an actor on stage who didn't know his next line. Meredith touched his shoulder. “Go and have a cigarette, constable.”

“I don't smoke, sir.”

“Then go and have a bloody drink.”

“I don't …”

He was almost in shock. I steered him along the deck. “There must be a kitchen in this boat somewhere. You can probably get a cup of coffee or something. Hang on, son. You'll be all right.”

“Hardy!”

I turned to see Meredith beckoning me. He was holding a .38 Smith & Wesson that looked very like mine, also a tape cassette and the Polaroid photographs of me in blinking, blundering action. I approached him and held out my hand for the gun.

“Don't make me laugh,” he said. “You're a menace.”

“This was all a set-up, Meredith. It's not the way it looks. But I'll tell you one thing—Barry Tobin's on his way to kill someone who's supposed to be safe under a witness protection program.”

“I don't understand any of this. What?”

“There really isn't time to explain. A lot of it's on that tape. If we had time you could call Frank Parker and he'd vouch for me, but I reckon you should take a punt. You believe in the witness protection program, don't you?”

“Of course.”

“Then you'd better get to the Budget Backpacker before Tobin does, or witness protection'll have about as much credibility as the weather bureau.”

Maybe it was because Meredith was young, maybe because he had imagination, maybe it was a rebellious streak, but he broke a lot of rules in getting himself, me and one of the constables away from the shambles on the
Pavarotti
in double-quick time. I sat in the back seat of the speeding police car cleaning myself up with bunches of tissues from the box Meredith handed me.