Cross Off (19 page)

21

'A
va seems better,' Roy Waterford said. 'Either you cheered her up, Lucas, or she likes the idea of a killer coming after her. Turns her on, maybe. Hmm?'

Dunlop ignored Roy's fishing expedition. He was sitting in the front room of the Little Lloyd Street cottage, drinking coffee, after an unproductive discussion of military tactics. The talk hadn't been helped by Waterford's outfit—skin-tight black velvet trousers, a white frilly blouse and high heels. He wore an ash blonde wig but hadn't got around to applying make-up. The effect was bizarre and made Dunlop irritated. He had to assume that the killer knew where they were and something about their organisation. Given that, there was no point in concealing his own presence. No point either, possibly, in Roy's masquerade.

Roy read Dunlop's mood and drifted off to the bathroom. Ava and Ann were upstairs. The schedule called for Ava to visit the local TAB and place some bets, but Dunlop was unsure whether to go ahead with this or not. The new developments had left him uncertain and edgy and made him question the
whole strategy. What had he imagined happening? A stabbing attempt in the street? A nocturnal intrusion? Bullshit. The only defence was attack. They had to find the killer before he made a move. They knew he was hooked and knew what he looked like. Abruptly, Dunlop stood up and pulled on his raincoat. It was a matter of surveillance, watching in shifts, communications.

Ann came down the stairs. 'Luke, what're you doing here? I thought . . .'

'Yeah. I had to talk to Roy. Look, I don't think Ava should go out today. Things have changed.'

Ava appeared at Ann's shoulder. She was dressed in the same clothes as Roy and carrying a poplin trench coat. 'We were going to toss for it,' she said. 'Winner goes to the TAB, loser stays in and does her nails.'

Dunlop exploded. 'It's not a fucking joke, Ava! There's a bloke out there who wants to blow your fucking head off!'

Ava flared. 'You think I don't know that? I don't give a fuck. Bugger the tossing. I'm going out. Roy, forget it. I'm going with Ann.' She clattered down the stairs.

'No,' Dunlop moved to block her.

'What the hell is this?' Ann said. 'What's going on? Why is everyone losing their cool here?'

Roy spoke from the bathroom. Made-up, he was Ava's twin again. 'Not me.'

'You shut up,' Dunlop snarled.

Ava lit a cigarette and blew smoke at him. 'What's got into you? Coming the little Hitler. I thought we were a team here.'

'Ava, I don't want . . .'

Ann turned towards Roy, who was leaning through the serving hatch adjusting the top of his padded bra. 'Sounds like a lover's tiff,' she said.

Dunlop's hands dropped to his sides. 'Jesus, Ann . . .'

Roy looked at the thin gold watch on his wrist. 'We have to get this sorted out pretty quickly. It's going on for twelve-twenty. Ava's already missed the first race. What was your selection, darling?'

Ava laughed. 'You're a hoot, Roy.'

'Aren't I, though?'

The exchange calmed Dunlop. He glanced at Ann, who was smiling apologetically at Ava. He took off his coat. 'I'm sorry for all that. I've just come from a meeting with the higher-ups who were telling me to turn on the heat or something.'

'Turn up the heat,' Ann said. 'Well you did it, though not the way they meant. What
do
they mean?'

Ava took a form guide from her bag and sat down. She ran her finger down the page. 'Nothing serious until the third at one-fifteen. Plenty of time. I suppose your bosses mean I should parade along Oxford Street with a sandwich board. Ava Belfante. Aim here. I'm all for it.'

'Don't be silly,' Ann said. 'It's a waiting game, isn't it, Luke?'

Dunlop nodded. 'The trouble is they put a time limit on us. Five days.'

Ann shook her head. 'That's ridiculous, you'll have to talk them out of that.'

A discussion followed in which Dunlop made a case for increased manpower and close, round-the-clock watches on the house. Ava was for greater
exposure; Ann sided with Dunlop; Roy said he wished there was some way they could go on the offensive. The radio crackled on the bench beside him. Roy picked it up, listened and said, 'Right.'

'What?' Dunlop said.

Roy brushed back a strand of hair. 'Charlie Porter's coming in for some reason. I'll just slip away. He makes me nervous. So butch.' He slid back the bathroom door and went inside.

'I wonder what he wants?' Ann said.

Dunlop shrugged. 'I need to talk to him anyway.'

Tate found the base in Little Charles Street shortly after eleven a.m.—much sooner than he'd expected. He congratulated himself on his planning. The grey Datsun was parked just inside the roller door, its number plate clearly visible. The workshop's windows to the street had been boarded up and the marks where innumerable tyres had passed over the footpath, going in and coming out, were faded by sun and rain. A rusted piece of guttering drooped towards the street. But there were newer tracks laid down by well-shod vehicles and other signs of recent occupation—a clean window in one of the rooms above the workshop, a new electric cable running up the side of the building.

There was a small park across from the auto-electrician's. Tate sat on a bench in thin, watery sunlight, drank two cups of the sweet coffee and watched. He saw some movement at the first floor window. A man came out and took something from the Datsun but did not move the car. After ten minutes a motorcycle pulled up. The rider dismounted
and wheeled the bike inside the workshop. He was met by the one who'd been to the car. They moved back, out of sight. More movement upstairs.
Right
, Tate thought,
three of them, two vehicles and all at home. No time like the present
. He slung his bag back onto his shoulder, crossed the road and walked in under the roller door. The man standing behind the Datsun smoking a cigarette looked up.

'Sorry, mate we're not . . .'

Tate unzipped his bag and took out the
Gregory's
—a harmless, familiar item. He opened it at random. 'I'm looking for this mechanic . . .'

The man bent forward to look at the page. Tate dropped the directory and whipped up the Ruger. He shoved it hard against the man's nose.

'Jesus, don't . . .'

'Turn around.'

'What?'

'Turn around!'

The man turned. Tate smashed the butt of the pistol twice against the side of his head. The man groaned, sagged. Tate brought the butt down hard on the top of his skull and the man fell in a heap. Tate quickly tied his hands and feet with cord, wound several turns of insulation tape tightly over his mouth and rolled him underneath the car. Then he took out the rifle and assembled it. He put the Ruger in his coat pocket and his bag in the front seat of the Datsun, taking care to close the door noiselessly.

A short flight of wooden steps at the back of the workshop led to the upper level. Tate put on the balaclava and went up the steps quickly. Two rooms, a kitchenette and a toilet. A man was making coffee at a laminex-topped bench. He whistled as he
worked. Tate could hear noise in the next room—a match, a cigarette being lit. He lowered the rifle, took out the .22 and moved to the open door of the kitchenette. The coffee-maker, whistling tunelessly, was standing back, waiting for the water to boil in the electric jug. Tate raised the silenced pistol and shot him twice in the head. The whistling ceased and the man fell heavily, noisily.

'Joel, you okay? Joel?'

The man who appeared in the doorway was tall, fair and overweight. His belly strained at his waistband. His second chin folded down over the collar of his modish blue shirt and the knot of his striped tie as his mouth opened when he saw Tate and looked into the muzzle of the rifle.

'Back,' Tate said. 'And be careful.'

The fat man dropped his cigarette and stumbled back into the room. Tate followed, stepping on the cigarette as he went. It was a small room, containing a sofa, a table and two chairs. A portable two-way radio unit was on the table. A flak jacket lay on the sofa along with an assault rifle and a pistol. The man's eyes flicked to the weapons.

'Don't even think about it,' Tate said. 'Just answer questions.'

Sweat broke out on the plump face. 'Yes.'

'Good. The radio communicates with the house in Little Lloyd Street, right?'

'Yes, the houses. That is . . .'

'Two houses?'

'Yes. There's a door that goes through inside.'

'Top or bottom floor?'

'Both.'

'Is the layout the same in the two places?'

'I . . . identical.'

'Radio in both houses?'

A nod.

'You're doing fine. What's your name?'

'P . . . Porter, Charlie Porter.'

'Okay, Charlie. You're what, Federal police?'

'CCA. Don't kill me.'

'I'll try not to. How many people in the houses?'

Porter's terror brought the words out in a rush. 'They're all in the one house. Number 4. There's the two women and one man . . .' He panicked, reconsidering. What did you call the poofter? Don't know. 'I think that's right.'

'Dunlop. He there?'

Porter was anxious to please. The small, death-dealing hole at the end of the rifle didn't waver a millimetre. 'I don't know. Maybe. I'm not sure, really. I can't tell you. Please . . .'

'It's okay, Charlie. Keep calm. Everything's going to be all right. Suppose you wanted to go into the other house. Number 6, would that be?'

Porter nodded. His knees trembled. His legs didn't want to support his heavy body a second longer.

'Suppose you wanted to go into Number 6, what would you do?'

'I . . . I'd call up.'

'And what would you say?'

'Porter. Coming in to Number 6.'

'Do it.'

'I . . . I can't. I'm too scared.'

Tate stepped forward and rammed the muzzle of the rifle into the soft spread of Porter's gut. Porter bent over, expelling air, and Tate hammered the metal stock of the rifle into his ear. The flesh pulped
and leaked blood. Porter whimpered. Tate used the rifle to prop him upright. 'Tell you what, Charlie. Let's go and get the coffee your mate was making. Then you can decide what scares you most—doing what I say, or not doing it.'

They went to the tiny kitchen. The electric kettle was the kind that switches itself off after it has boiled. Tendrils of steam rose from its spout. Tate stood in the doorway and gave Porter instructions. The fat man obeyed them, walking around his colleague's body as he clumsily made the coffee.

'I'll take mine black,' Tate said. 'You have what you please.'

Back in the other room, Tate directed Porter to sit down and drink his coffee. He took his own standing up by the window. After he had finished he wiped the mug clean with the tail of his shirt.

'Feeling better, Charlie?'

Porter nodded. 'Can I have a cigarette?'

'After we finish. Where's the keys to the house?'

Porter reached into the pocket of his suit jacket hanging on the chair. He froze when he realised what he'd done. Tate's expression didn't change. He motioned for Porter to continue. Out came a leather folder with keys attached. He slid it across the table towards Tate with, as a small show of defiance, a packet of filter cigarettes. Tate examined the folder briefly, noting with satisfaction the car keys. 'Right. You just call in a normal voice and say what you have to. We'll do a dry run. Go.'

Porter cleared his throat and said, 'This is Porter. Coming in to Number s . . . six.'

Tate nodded. 'Not bad. Bit hesitant on the number.
Try to make that a bit smoother. Look, I'll put the gun down. That better?'

Porter picked up the radio handset and activated the channel. There was a crackle, then he spoke, 'This is Porter. Coming in to Number 6.'

Tate had moved behind Porter and slipped the knife from its sheath. 'That was great, Charlie,' he said.

Porter's head came up and turned. Tate grabbed a fistful of hair with his left hand, jerked up and back and drew the knife hard across the taut, straining throat. He avoided the blood that jetted out, splashing the table then flowing freely, turning Porter's blue shirt a deep purple. There was a gurgling sound as Porter died. Tate released the hair and wiped the knife on Porter's sleeve. Unhurriedly, Tate returned the knife to its sheath and picked up the rifle. He went out of the room and retrieved the two shell casings from the floor outside the kitchen. Then he went downstairs.

He took off the balaclava, put it and the rifle in his bag and placed it beside him on the front seat of the Datsun. When the engine was running smoothly, he engaged reverse and eased the car back. The rear wheels bumped over the man lying on the oil-stained concrete floor. He drove slowly forward and allowed the wheels to bump again in the same way. He drove out of the workshop and pulled into the kerb, leaving the motor running. He slammed down the roller door and drove away, signalling as he pulled out into the light traffic.

22

A
va took a heavy gold ballpoint pen—a make-the-peace gift from Vance—from her bag and jotted on the form guide. Dunlop and Ann Torrielli regarded each other uneasily. Roy was humming in the bathroom. Dunlop tried to catch the tune and decided it was 'Begin the Beguine', one of his mother's favourites. He tried to remember who the singer had been on the old LP record.

'Porter's taking his time,' Ann said.

Dunlop looked at his watch. 'Probably being careful. It's raining again.'

They heard the sound of the key in the front door of the other house.

'There he is,' Dunlop said. 'He can stay here. I'll go and get in touch with Peters.'

Tate left the car at the posts that blocked off Little Lloyd Street. He walked quickly to the door of Number 6 and let himself in. He unzipped his bag, put on the hood and assembled the rifle. He looked around the room, familiarising himself with the layout, and opened the door in the party wall. The
rifle was set for automatic fire. Tate went through the gap into the other house. He was not expecting the slight difference in floor levels and he missed his step.

Dunlop's hand was moving towards his pistol almost before Tate appeared. Something—the time lapse after the sound of the key in the front door, the manner of opening the adjoining door—had warned him, but he was too late. Tate, momentarily off-balance but recovering fast, saw the movement and fired. Three shots in the short burst flew wild as he swung the rifle towards the target. The fourth hit Dunlop high and threw him back.