The Dying Trade (11 page)

I couldn't make much of this very selective preservation of the past. I studied the photographs of the building and the women closely so as to recognise the originals if I ever saw them and then put the whole lot back in the envelope and the drawer just as I'd found them.

This piece of illegality had taken longer than I'd expected, over half an hour, and I felt an itch at the back of my neck that told me it was high time to go. I went out onto the landing and pulled the door shut behind me. I froze as I heard a car engine being cut under the car port twenty feet away. A door slammed and leather-soled shoes started hitting the bricks. I risked a look down and saw a short, heavy-set man with a head as bald as an egg move briskly down the path and turn into the doorway of the front flat on the ground floor. I let out a stale, sour breath and went down the steps and out through the spaces in the car port. Flat 1's space was taken up by a red MG sports model with wire wheels and kerb feelers. I sneered at it and walked through the lane and up the street to where the Falcon stood with its rust patches and bald tyres gleaming in the late afternoon light.

I had just enough time to try a long shot which would round off the day's work. I drove against the flow of traffic, which was thick and moving as slow as a senile snail, across to the University. I arrived when the day students were pulling out and just before the evening sloggers took up all the space. I got a parking place near the east gates and strolled across the lawn to the main library. I had once done a little research into architecture when I was investigating an insurance fraud on a fire in a Victorian hotel and I remembered where the architecture section was in the library. I looked along the rows until I found Chiswick's two volumes on
The Public Buildings of South Australia.
The book had been very expensive when it was published thirty years before and the quality of its photographs was excellent. It was meticulously indexed and it only took a few minutes to find out that the building of which Haines had kept a picture wasn't a prison. Another few minutes showed that it wasn't a school. Perhaps it was a combination of the two though: I found it on page 215 of the second volume, the picture was taken from a slightly different angle but it was undoubtedly the same forbidding edifice—St Christopher's Boys Orphanage. The short history of the building wasn't interesting but I read it through just the same. I put the books back and left the library.

CHAPTER 12

The part-timers, looking tired already, were getting out of their cars as I got into mine. I decided to make for a pub and have a few drinks before calling Ailsa. I'd been hired to help a woman I found I cordially disliked and had ended up working for one about whom I had quite different feelings. It was a big changeabout in a short space of time and I wondered what effect it was having on my judgment. I wonder better over a glass of something, so I put off the effort until I had the conditions right. After a scotch in a place near the dog track, I picked the right money out of my change and put it into the red phone at the corner of the bar. The wall was scarred with a hundred telephone numbers and the names and numbers of innumerable horses and dogs. The directory was a tattered ruin. I read the record of losing favourites and one-leg doubles as I waited for Ailsa to answer her phone. It rang and rang hopelessly and I hung up, checked the number and rang again. The result was the same and the repeated buzz on the line chilled and sobered me like a bucket of ice water in the face.

I ran to the Falcon and unparked it regardless of duco and chrome. I ripped my way through the late afternoon traffic towards Mosman.

There were no cops about and I set records through the winding roads towards the Bridge. I hit the Harbour Bridge approach and pushed the Falcon to the limit cursing it for its sluggishness and refusal to steer straight.

I ran into Ailsa's drive too fast and nearly spun the car around full circle in bringing it to a stop in front of the house. I unshipped my gun and went up the steps at a gallop. I hammered on the door and wrenched at the handle but it was locked so I kicked in the glass pane next to it. The thick glass shattered and splintered where my foot hit it and the rest of the pane came crashing down like a guillotine. I went in through the jagged hole and raced through the house, poking the gun into each room and calling Ailsa's name. I found her in the bedroom. She was naked and her clothes had been torn in strips to truss her up and tie her to the frame of the bed. She was breathing harshly through puffed, split lips and her body was criss-crossed with long, heavily bleeding scratches. There were round, white-flaked burn marks on her forearms and the room smelled of singed hair and skin. I grabbed the bedroom phone and called for an ambulance, then I untied the strips of fabric and lifted her up onto the bed. I tucked a pillow under her head, her pulse was strong but she was rigid and sweating and there were now lines in her face that looked like they would stay there forever.

I got some water from the kitchen, went back to the bedroom and lifted her head a little to the rim of the glass. She opened her eyes and lapped at the water. Her eyes showed that her body was a package of pain. She looked at me reproachfully.

“Some protector,” she croaked through her battered lips.

“Ailsa, I'm sorry,” my voice sounded like grit in ball bearings. “Who did it love, why?”

“Bryn . . . and another man. I let them in. Other man slapped me and stripped me. Bryn just watched.”

The effort of speaking was doing her no good, she was in deep shock and her face was pale and waxy, but I had to know a little more.

“Listen love, just answer in one word or shake your head, understand?”

She nodded.

“What did Bryn want?”

“Files.”

“Gutteridge's files?”

A nod.

“Did Bryn touch you?”

A shake, no.

“Just the other guy. Was Bryn there all the time?”

A shake.

“Why did he leave? What did you tell him?”

‘‘Brave.”

“You told him Brave had the files. Is that true?”

She closed her eyes and I eased her back down onto the pillow. “You don't know,” I said almost under my breath. “Good girl, that was smart.” There was one last thing I needed to know. I smoothed down the cap of hair which was sweaty and sticking up in spikes. “Ailsa, I have to know this. When did Bryn leave, can you tell me?”'

“You rang,” she whispered, “he left.”

That made it half an hour or so, a little more. If he went to Brave's place directly he'd be there within an hour. Maybe he wasn't there yet and perhaps I could still spring the trap. Ailsa seemed to have lost consciousness, I checked her pulse again, still strong, I pulled a sheet up over her body and was just watching the blood ooze through it when I heard the sirens.

“Where?” the shout came from the front of the house.

“Back bedroom,'' I bellowed.

Two ambulance men charged into the room carrying a stretcher.

The young fresh faced one stopped short, he hadn't done much in this line of work before. The older man took a glance then busied himself preparing the stretcher. His face was an expressionless mask.

“Anything broke?”

“I don't think so.”

He pulled the sheet aside carefully and gently lifted her arms and legs an inch or so; he put his ear to her chest.

“Think you're right. Has to be moved anyway, needs treatment fast. OK Snowy, stop gawking. On the stretcher.”

The boy did his share smartly enough.

“Who did this?” he said as they were fastening the straps.

“A friend.”

“God, I'm sorry.”

“Thanks, he's going to be sorrier.”

While this was going on I found Ailsa's address book and the name and number of her doctor. I wrote them on the back of my card and tucked it into the older guy's overall pocket.

“I'm admitting her. Her doctor's name and number are on the card, it's my card. Her name's Ailsa Sleeman, double e. Where will she be?”

He raised an eyebrow and seemed to be going to protest until he got a good look at my face. “St Bede's,” he said nervously. “You should admit her personally, but I guess you're going to be busy.”

“That's right.”

I told him I'd contact the police and he offered no argument to that. They carried her gingerly out of the house, down the steps and put her in the ambulance. The siren screamed and the vehicle wailed off towards the city.

It was early for my calls to Evans and Tickener, but perhaps too late. A packet of Ailsa's cigarettes was lying on the floor near the bed and I took one out mechanically and put it in my mouth. Then I looked at the floor again. Three long butts had been squashed out into the deep pile of the carpet making charred holes as big as five cent pieces. I spat the cigarette out, grabbed the phone and dialled. Tickener's voice was flat, bored, he wasn't expecting me yet.

“This is Hardy,” I said, “things are breaking. Here's what I want you to do . . .” He interrupted me. “Listen Hardy, I've been looking into this Brave. He's weird, he . . .”

I cut in. “Yeah, I know. Tell me later. I want you to get out to the clinic as fast as you can. Colin Jones around, is he?”

“Yes, matter of fact he's right here now. I had a word with him, mate of yours I understand . . .”

I cut him off again. “Bring him! The cops won't be far behind you and I won't be far behind them. Give the place a bit of air the way you did before, OK?”

“OK Hardy. We're busting Brave?”

“Wide open,” I said, “and you're an A grade from tomorrow if you handle it right.”

I rang off and dialled Evans' number. He answered testily.

“You're early, you're never early, it can't be you.”

“It's me, I was pushed. My client's been cut and burned and our men aren't standing about. Can you move now?”

“Yeah, but give me something for the sheet.”

“Put what you like on it, but don't put this—Costello.”

“Shit!”

“Right. I think Brave has him at his clinic in Longueville. Your mate Jackson is running interference and a Dr Clyde is doing the remodelling of Costello's dial. I want Brave. Costello's just a by-product to me but I haven't got any time for him anyway. Suit you?”

“And how!” I could hear the scratch of his writing across the line. I gave him the address and a few other details. I was praying that Bryn's trip to Longueville would delay things out there enough so that all the principals wouldn't be on planes to Rio by the time the law, the press and I got there.

I got up off the floor with creaking knee joints and needles of pain in my skull. I looked around the room, at the bloody sheets, the cigarette ends and the ripped clothes. Some light was coming in from an opening in the curtains and I could see the swimming pool still reflecting light challengingly close, but I doubted that Ailsa would ever feel like reading her novels, smoking her cigarettes and being warm and loving in that room again. It was a room I'd liked more than most, and it made me sad to know how it'd been used by the worst sort of human being to create the worst sort of pain.

There was a small clutch of neighbours across the road standing on a second level balcony exhibiting well bred interest in the proceedings. They had glasses in their hands as if they were toasting the most excitement seen in that part of the world in years. I gave them a rude gesture and drove off leaving them twittering and fluttering like birds who've been thrown a handful of seed.

I was getting to know the route out to Longueville well enough to drive it in my sleep. I pushed the Falcon flat-out. A few solid citizens shook their heads disapprovingly as I passed them and two bikies gave me an outrider escort for a mile for the hell of it. The day was dying and a soft, limp night settling down on the suburbs and hills when I reached Longueville but I was thinking of Ailsa and wailing sirens and it seemed to be raining blood to me.

CHAPTER 13

Tickener's Holden was standing around the corner from the clinic and half a block back along the street. Across from it were two unmarked cars carrying four men who could only have been cops. I pulled up behind Tickener. Grant Evans got out of his car and walked across to the Holden. He got on the front seat and I got in the back. I sat down next to a small, relaxed looking guy who wore a Zapata moustache and an intelligent expression. Evans spoke first.

“You didn't tell me that the press were in on it, Cliff, I could get my arse kicked for this.”

“You won't,” I assured him. “The fish are too big and too many people are going to be scared shitless to worry about you. You'll do yourself a lot of good. Oh, by the way, Harry Tickener, Inspector Grant Evans.” They shook hands warily. Tickener half-turned and nodded at the photographer sitting next to me who was fiddling with what looked like twenty different camera attachments. “Colin Jones,” he said. Evans stuck out his hand and Colin gave it a quick shake and went back to his cameras. He'd been a man of few words when I'd met him as a reconnaissance cameraman in Malaya, and he hadn't changed a bit.

“This should be right up your street, Colin,” I said. “Here's how it stands. I think Rory Costello's in there getting a face job. There are legitimate patients in there too which poses a bit of a problem and there's plenty of muscle. A boy named Bruno who can handle himself and at least two others who can dish it out. And Costello of course, but I imagine he's out of action. He was bandaged up like a mummy when I saw him, if it was him.”

“It better be,” Evans growled. “Weapons?”

“Didn't see any but sure to be some. The guy on the gate is almost certainly armed and he's our first problem.”

“That booth looks like a fortress,” said Tickener.

“It's pretty formidable,” I agreed, “but the problem is that it relays pictures and alarms to the main building. The fence is electrified and there are TV cameras about.”

“So it's no go to divert the guard and go over the fence?” Evans leered at me. “What are we going to do, parachute in?”

Jones spoke up. “Have you been inside the fence and the building, Cliff?”

I said I had. “Did you hear any constant background noise of any kind?” All I'd heard was a lot of talk and a lot of ringing inside my head after I'd been hit. I tried to remember the feeling of being inside the place, lobby, corridors and rooms. “No,” I said, “No background noise.” “Any flickering in the lights?” Jones asked. I thought about it. “No.”

“Then it's no problem.” He slung a camera around his neck. “No generator, they're working off the mains supply—amateurs. You knock out the supply lines temporarily or permanently and in you go.”

“Is it hard to do?” I asked.

“No, a cinch, I can do it.”

“Can you now?” said Evans thoughtfully.

The cameraman smiled at him. “I was trained in Her Majesty's armed service, Inspector. It's easy if you know how, I'd need a hammer and a couple of big nails and a screwdriver.”

“I'd have them over the back,” said Tickener. “I'm building a shack up the Hawkesbury.”

“All right for some,” Evans muttered as the reporter got out of the car, went round the back, dropped the hatch and started a few seconds of noisy rummaging. My nerves screamed at the clanking of metal on metal and I was anxious to be moving. Evans sat there shaking his head gently and looking resignedly out into the night. Tickener came up with the nails and tools and put them on the bonnet of the car.

“Assuming we get in OK,” Evans said, “how do you read it from there, Cliff? No warrant, no nothing.”

“They'll react. They'll shoot, I think. That lets you in.”

“True, true. Shooting's illegal.” Evans began to enjoy himself. “Right, I'll leave two men in a car outside to mop up or follow us in if need be. The rest of us will go in—you, me, Varson, Tickener and Jones. The objective is Costello, right?”

“Right,” I said, “and Brave if he's there. I think he will be.”

I had my own thoughts about others who might be there and it probably wasn't fair not to tell Grant about them, but I had plans about what to do if Bryn and his mate got within pistol distance and I didn't want any interference.

Jones spoke again. “Do you want the blackout permanent or temporary?”

“Temporary,” said Evans, “I want to see who I'm arresting.”

“OK.” The photographer deposited his equipment carefully on the seat and got out of the car. “Let's find the power line. Oh, I forgot to tell you, if it's right outside the front gate we're stuffed.”

Evans, Tickener and I got out of the car and followed Colin. Evans beckoned to the car behind, a man got out and jogged to catch up with us. He had a quick confab with Evans, ran back to the car to fill his colleagues in, and was out of breath when he caught up with us again. We set off to pick up the perimeter of the clinic at the north end. Evans' offsider was a big, bald-headed man with a bald man's look of hostility at the world. From the bulge under his coat I guessed he was carrying a fair sized gun and I was glad that he was on my side. I assumed that Grant was adequately armed, I had my .38, fully loaded, in my jacket pocket.

We walked around the fence with Jones looking up and down every few yards. After walking the full length of one side of the block and half of the next, Jones stopped and clicked his tongue softly.

“This is it, a cinch.”

He pulled his belt from his pants, took off his jacket, put the nails and screwdriver in his pants pocket and shoved the hammer inside his waistband. He buckled the belt on the first hole and looped it over his shoulder. The lamp post stood about twelve feet back from the fence and it was a good twenty feet up to the cross beam. Jones whistled to himself as he shimmied up the post using hands, knees and feet like a south sea islander after coconuts. He reached the cross beam and slung the belt over it. He steadied himself by hanging onto the strap and began to hammer and probe the electrical equipment. Two minutes later he slid down the pole. He was carefully holding a piece of wire in his hand when he hit the ground.

“Always plenty of spare wire up there,” he said cheerfully. “This is all set up. One pull and the lights go out all over Europe, another tug and they go on again. You trip a switch and untrip it, see?”

“I believe him,” I said to Evans who grunted. The other cop spoke for the first time since he'd joined us. “How do we handle it? Do we go through the fence or the gate?” It was a pretty good question. Evans looked at Jones. “You're the one with all the ideas at the moment, what d'you think?” Jones paused, he was probably thinking of his compound-storming in Malaya and he'd been in on some tough ones.

“The gate's the easiest. The guard's going to be as blind as a bat when the lights blow. Should be easy to grab him and keep him quiet. We can get the gates open and drive in. Of course, someone'll have to stay here and do the pulling.”

“That'll be you, Ron,” Evans said to the cop, then he waved a hand at us. “Sorry, Hardy, Jones, Tickener—Ron Varson, rough as guts.”

We nodded at him. Varson didn't look happy with his second fiddle job but he took Evans' description of him as a compliment and looked grimly determined. Evans was in control of it now. He issued his instructions briskly and authoritatively. We checked our watches and agreed on lights-out time and three of us headed back towards the gate. Varson stood holding the wire and looking up to where it connected with the switches. He still looked a bit unhappy with the job, as though he was about to flush himself down a giant lavatory.

We proceeded in a huddle as close as we could to the main gate without being noticed. We decided to take Tickener's car because that meant the reporter and photographer could go in with a maximum of cover. Maybe Evans was hedging his bet a little, but no one argued. Jones huddled down in the back of the FB, Tickener hunched over the wheel. We waited. The clinic grounds and the reception booth were almost floodlit, very bright. Evans eased a black automatic out of his holster and checked it. I patted my gun. There was no traffic within earshot and the quiet of Longueville at that moment was just the sort of quiet the residents had paid all that money for.

The clinic blacked out suddenly as if it had been covered by an old-time photographer's cloth. Evans and I sprinted for the reception booth. By the little moonlight and the street light we could see the guard flailing around pushing buttons. Evans fronted the glass cage and pointed his automatic at the guard's nose. He reached for a sawn-off shotgun which rested against the wall of the booth but he was too slow. I had the side door open and my gun in his earhole before he could grab the weapon.

“Easy does it friend, you don't want to die for five hundred a month.”

He saw the wisdom of it and let go the shotgun. Evans came into the booth and prodded the guard out. The guard walked towards the car, moonlight glinted on the barrel of a pistol which one of the detectives held out of the car window trained on his chest.

The light came on again and Grant pushed a couple of buttons on the instrument panel in the box. The wide gates swung open. I grabbed the shotgun and went out and through the gates at a run. Evans took a swipe at the control panel and followed me. Tickener came burning up to the gate and we ran along beside him as the FB roared up to the clinic. He wavered on and off the brick path and the wheels churned furrows up in the smooth green grass on either side. There were three cars parked near the main entrance and I was shouting at Tickener to block them when a red and blue flash came from a window in the main block. Glass shattered in the car and I heard a yelp from Jones. Tickener stalled the motor and we crouched down behind the car. Another flash and a bullet whined off the Holden's bonnet. I peeked around and snapped two shots at the window. Evans crouched double and ran for the porch. He went up the steps, fired twice into the glass doors and jumped aside. A bullet from inside splintered a panel on the door and I made it to the other side of the porch in six heart-in-the-mouth strides. Footsteps pounded up the path and the gun behind the window opened up and Varson dropped like a stone. I couldn't tell if he'd been hit or not. Evans kicked the shattered door in and we both went into the lobby, almost on our bellies. It was empty. Then the door at the end of the room opened and Bruno fired a quick shot at Evans before ducking back. He missed and Grant took a chance. He rushed through the door and flattened himself against the wall. I went through and pasted myself against the other side. Bruno was halfway down the corridor and his next shot whistled between us. Evans dropped to one knee, sighted quickly and fired. Bruno screeched and went down like the last pin in the lane and his gun skittered crazily along the polished floor.

Two men came out of a door on the right. One of them snapped a shot at me and they jumped over Bruno and rounded the bend at the end of the passage. I was vaguely conscious of movement and sound behind me and took a quick look. Tickener was crouched down near Evans and slightly hampering his attempt to take a shot, his face white and his eyes wide and scared. Jones was standing up behind Evans, snapping and flashing. A man lumbered out of the door the other two had come from. He was big, dark hair spilled through the unbuttoned top of his pyjamas coat and he was groping at the tie of the pants. His face was heavily bandaged and the pistol he carried was pointed nowhere in particular.

Evans shook Tickener away and bellowed. “Costello, police, let go the gun.”

The blind-looking bandaged face turned slowly towards the sound of the voice. Jones stepped forward and snapped. The bulb went off and Grant threw up his hand to ward off the glare. Costello lined him up like an Olympic shooter with 20/20 vision. I swung the shotgun on him and fired. The charge hit him in the chest, lifted him up and slammed him against the white wall. He slid slowly down it, leaving a bloody trail behind him like a wolf shot high up in the snow country coming down the slope to die. Jones walked up and took a careful picture. His hands were as still and steady as Costello's corpse.

I put the shotgun down. Evans was leaning against the wall. His gun was pointing at the floor and his lips were moving silently. He knew how close he'd come.

“There's more of them, Grant,” I said quietly.

As I spoke the door behind us opened and Varson came through it sideways, propping it open with his back. He waved a man through with a quick gesture of his enormous, gun-filled right hand. Dr Ian Brave strolled into the passage.

“I got him outside,” said Varson, “he was leaving.”

“He stays,” Evans said.

Brave looked at the crumpled, bloody ruin on the floor. His face had a vacant, other-worldly look—for my money he was floating high and free somewhere a long way off. Along the corridor Bruno groaned and tried to pull himself up against the wall; everyone had forgotten him.