Death by the Book (25 page)

‘What was that?’ Ian Durst stood up and walked over to the chair. He slapped Jack across the face. ‘Every time you open your mouth, smart-arse, that’s what you get.’ He slapped Jack again, snapping his head the other way. ‘That’s credit. Want to say something else?’

‘Sit down, for fuck’s sake,’ said Peterson.

Jack shook his head, rubbed his stinging jaw with his free hand. His brain ticked over, adrenaline-fuelled. He looked up at Durst and smiled. ‘So you’re the sucker with the gun.’

Ian Durst glared down at Jack.

‘Glendenning went to see you because he didn’t believe a word.’ Jack stared coldly into Durst’s eyes. Doubt flashed across them like a flock of startled pigeons. It was worth risking another punch. ‘You sure you told your story the same way each time? Remember the order of things?’

‘He’s just fucking with you,’ said Peterson.

Durst lifted his chin. ‘When are they picking him up?’

‘Later. George and Red are coming. Remember them, Susko?’

Jack looked at Peterson.

Durst grinned, his confidence returning. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

George Papatheophanous and Red Sneddon. Two hundred and twenty-odd kilos between them. Each had the muscle-to-brain ratio of a brontosaurus. Ziggy’s broom boys for cleaning up messes.

‘They’ll be by in a little while.’

Jack had heard better news. But he smiled. Rubbed his jaw some more.
Don’t worry about the boys. Think.
Peterson and Durst had Glendenning on their minds.

‘Hope you know what you’re doing,’ he said, looking at them both and massaging his cheek. ‘George and Red hate complications. They’re easily confused. Can’t handle corners. Might be a good idea not to mention Detective Sergeant Glendenning going round to see Durst here. Remind me to keep my mouth shut.’

Peterson sat down on the couch, leaned his head back and hoisted a foot onto his knee. He stared at the ceiling and sighed. ‘Sorry, Jack,’ he said, amused. ‘You’re out of my hands. But good luck with everything.’

Jack looked at Durst. ‘You do Kasprowicz as well as Kass? That wipe your slate clean with Ziggy?’

Durst’s eyes widened a fraction: the whites were bruised and bloodshot.

‘Sucker with the gun,’ said Jack. ‘Where’d you put him? One of Ziggy’s construction sites? That place at the bottom end of George Street? Or the one on Castlereagh? Or did you go all the way out to Parramatta, use one of the new apartment developments he’s got going out there?’

Peterson stopped staring at the ceiling, levelled a hard, dirty look at Jack. Durst glanced at the cigarette in his hand and dropped it to the carpet, extinguished it with his foot. Nobody said a word. The roof creaked.

‘It’s a good plan,’ said Jack, as though he meant it. ‘Kasprowicz kills his brother and does a runner. That’s what you said, wasn’t it, Detective? But instead of Hong Kong he’s in ten metres of concrete foundations, under
twenty-five floors of first-home buyers being smart with their money. Gone for a hundred years.’

‘You read too many books, Susko.’ Peterson stood up, slipped his hands into his pockets and assumed his natural arrogance. ‘Made your brain soft.’ He turned his back on Jack and walked over by the front window. Durst remained in front of the chair, arms stiff by his sides.

‘What did Kasprowicz do to Ziggy?’ said Jack. ‘Shaft him on a deal? Or just beat him on the richest one hundred list?’

‘You can ask Mr Brandt yourself, soon,’ said Peterson.

‘That was a handy little family feud, the two famous brothers hating each other. Was Kasprowicz really burning those books and sending them? Wonderful touch if he wasn’t. Adds a nice bit of psychological complexity.’

Peterson smiled, flattered. ‘It was perfect. The sick bastard had been collecting the books for years. Who wouldn’t believe he’d put a match to them?’

‘What about my shop?’

‘Not quite pulled off.’

Jack spoke almost to himself. ‘Kasprowicz didn’t want to kill his brother.’

‘Not in one go. Just wipe him off the face of the earth, slowly. Book by book. The prick.’ Peterson screwed up his mouth in distaste, as though trying an oyster for the first time in his life.

‘Just because Kass did his wife?’

‘More than that, Jackie boy. More than that.’ Whatever the more was, Peterson was not saying.

Jack sorted events in his head. ‘Who came up with the idea of setting me up?’ He nodded at Durst. ‘Einstein over here? ’Cause it’s all a bit on the vague side, don’t you think?
After what, twenty, thirty years, why would Kasprowicz suddenly decide to take his brother out by hiring me to do the job? The details seem a little rushed. Not thought out.’ Jack rubbed the side of his jaw. ‘And I can get character witnesses, you know. I’ve been a model citizen lately.’

‘It ain’t about details.’ Peterson’s voice was level, businesslike and cool. He knew what he was talking about. ‘It’s about confusion. Leaving a mess. Nobody likes cleaning up a mess.’

‘Except lawyers.’

The detective managed a grin.

Jack smiled up at Durst. ‘And you got all the dirty work. The most talented ex-gynaecologist in the universe with an IQ of three.’

The punch was not as hard as it could have been. Durst’s fist slipped across Jack’s cheek. He should have stepped into it: instead he had to reach and over-balanced slightly. Jack put his free arm across his face, expecting more. He watched Durst’s nostrils flare as they juiced the stale air in the room for oxygen. It was another one of those times in Jack’s life when he should have kept his mouth shut. But his mouth never listened.

‘When you get done for all this,’ said Jack, ‘You can tell your daughter you’re going to be the new butt boy in section D.’

Durst cocked his arm. Jack flinched, turned his head away. The punch did not come. He turned back to see Durst laughing, silently. Then he stopped laughing: his face snapped instantly into an angry, twisted mask. This time Durst stepped into the punch. Jack’s bottom lip swelled up like a rubber dinghy.

‘Enough of that shit.’ Peterson walked over and pulled Durst away by the arm. ‘You need to get out of here.’

‘Just one more time.’

Jack swallowed a little blood. He ran his tongue over his teeth, checking for anything loose. They all appeared to be in place.

‘Make you feel like a man, Durst?’ he said. It hurt to talk.

‘Take his handcuffs off.’

Peterson pushed Durst stiffly in the chest. ‘Settle down, you fucking idiot.’

Jack said: ‘You think a couple of tapes are going to keep Annabelle quiet after she finds out you killed her father?’

‘What tapes?’ Durst looked over at Peterson, frowning. He turned to Jack again and then back to Peterson. ‘What tapes?’

The detective stretched thin lips across his small, pointy, tightly packed teeth. ‘Annabelle isn’t going to say a fucking thing.’

Durst ran a hand through his hair. Then he walked up close, bent down and put his face an inch from Jack’s. ‘Oh, I get it. Poor little boyfriend! Did the sexy lady tell him she loved him?’

Jack stared at Durst. Noticed the blue of his eyes. The ironed-out wrinkles. Smelt the expensive aftershave. ‘Don’t you know about the tapes?’ said Jack.

Durst grinned. ‘Sucker without a gun,’ he whispered.

There was a noise in the kitchen, a rattling cutlery drawer. Peterson, Durst and Jack all looked up. Celia Mitten walked around the corner. Her hair was pinned back, her face grim and threatening even though her cheeks were flushed with morning cold. She wore a long, pale purple
jumper over a long black skirt. The hem was wet in patches and smeared with mud. She was holding something behind her back.

‘
You
killed my father!’

Durst looked alarmed. ‘I thought I told you to wait in the car.’

‘You bastard!’

She ran at him. She was surprisingly quick. Her hand came out from behind her back. There was a steak knife in her fist.

Durst leaned backwards, put his hands up as Celia lunged at him screaming. The knife stuck in his shoulder, in the soft flesh just below the collarbone. He groaned and then fell back onto Jack, still handcuffed in the chair. The white painted cane broke beneath them and they collapsed to the floor.

Celia managed to keep hold of the knife. It came out of Durst’s shoulder, after she had twisted the steel in there for a bit. It had missed the padding of his thick black coat — blood was steadily staining the white shirt underneath. Celia writhed on top of him, trying to re-insert the serrated blade. Durst grabbed her throat.

‘Get her off me! Get her off me!’ His eyes were wide with shock.

‘Bastard!’ screamed Celia.

Jack rolled clear. The handcuff on his right wrist was still attached to the armrest; he dragged a large piece of smashed chair with him as he moved. His eyes were fixed on the doorway leading out of the living area. He commando-crawled towards it as fast as he could.

He was halfway across when the gun went off.

22

‘F
UCK, FUCK, FUCK
,’ repeated Durst through rapid, shallow breaths. His face was tight with pain. He pulled himself clear of Celia Mitten’s body.

Peterson still had his gun pointed at the dead woman. He held it in one hand, his stance comfortable, his arm straight but not rigid. He did not blink: his eyes had seen it all before.

‘Fuck! Get me something.’ Durst rolled onto his side, away from Celia, holding his shoulder. ‘I’m bleeding!’

Peterson shifted his eyes to Durst. The gun followed his line of sight, his arm swung around slowly, precisely. He pulled the trigger, twice. The bullets thumped into Ian Durst’s body. One of them exited through his chest: thick,
black heart blood spread quickly and smoothly and soaked his white shirt. His eyes were open, frozen. His last breath pushed a bubble of blood out over his lips: it grew for a moment and then popped, gone.

In a low voice the detective said: ‘May as well be now.’

Jack looked up towards the doorway.
No chance
. By the time he stood up to run for it, he would be down on the floor again, heavier by at least two regulation police bullets.

Detective Geoff Peterson lowered his arm. ‘Up you get, Jackie boy,’ he said, as though nothing had happened. ‘Over here.’

Jack pressed his forehead into the nylon-blend carpet. It was probably not even 10.00 a.m. yet.

‘Don’t make me shoot you.’

With some effort, Jack stood up. A piece of cane chair dangled from the handcuffs. ‘Ziggy isn’t going to like blood all over his carpet,’ he said.

‘That’s his problem.’

Jack turned to the bodies: a strange quiet was already emanating from them. A cold, subterranean quiet. He wanted out of there. ‘Glendenning isn’t going to be happy either.’

Peterson pointed at the couch with his gun. ‘Sit.’

Jack walked over to the couch.

‘Arms out.’

With one hand, the detective snapped the loose handcuff over Jack’s other wrist. It hit the knuckle of the wrist bone, sending a dull vibration of pain up his arm. His whole body was becoming rigid, cold as steel; the pain echoed through his limbs, bounced back and forth, collected in his head.
His jaw ached as though a clamp was attached to it, slowly tightening.

He glanced at Durst’s lifeless body again. ‘I thought you two were best friends.’

Peterson frowned. He held the gun up in front of him, as though he did not know how it got there. He turned it to one side, then the other, admiringly. He continued looking at it as he slowly stretched his arm out and pointed the gun at Jack. He angled his head, closed one eye and aimed. Then he shouted: ‘Bang!’

Jack closed his eyes. He waited for his heart to slip back down his throat and then opened them again.

Peterson laughed. His eyes were wide. His forehead glistened with sweat. He had a sick grin on his face, like a clown who was starting to hate his job. Then in an instant it dropped away and his face tightened like a fist. He lowered the gun, held it against his leg. ‘No more chances, Jackie boy.’

He turned and looked at Celia Mitten and Ian Durst, draining into the carpet behind him. ‘Stupid bitch.’

‘Lucky Ziggy’s got more than one construction site,’ said Jack. ‘But you’ll owe him. Big time.’