Death by the Book (26 page)

Peterson said nothing, slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He flipped it open, dialled, waited. ‘Yeah, it’s me. You on your way? … Ten minutes? Good … That’s right … No longer a problem … We’ll just have to skip a couple of steps.’ He hung up. He looked thoughtfully at Jack, his brain ticking over.

‘How come I never saw you with Ziggy before?’ asked Jack.

‘Nobody’s ever seen me with Ziggy.’

‘You sure? I bet he’s got a DVD somewhere.’

Peterson stared hard at Jack — no more grinning. ‘Who says
I
don’t?’

Now Jack gave a wry smile. ‘Who says it’d help you?’

The detective thought about that. His face said that he did not like it.

‘Got yourself a bit of a situation.’

‘Not me, Jack. You.’ He snapped open the mobile again and dialled. ‘I want you to say hello to someone for me.’

‘You calling the police?’

The detective ignored him. Somebody answered. ‘It’s Peterson. You can come down now … Yes, pronto … Hang on, there’s somebody here wants to say hello …’

The detective held the phone to Jack’s ear.

‘Yes?’ asked the voice on the phone. It was an irritated voice. A woman’s irritated voice.

‘Hey Annabelle,’ said Jack. ‘It’s me.’ He felt surprisingly calm. Shock did that sometimes.

Silence from the other end.

‘Don’t worry, everyone’s dead,’ he added. It was as though his mouth was on automatic pilot. ‘The money’s all yours. You can keep the poetry books as well.’

There was a pause: Jack could hear her breathing. Was she about to say:
I wanted to tell you
?

She hung up. Peterson pocketed the phone, a thin smile on his face. He patted Jack on the shoulder. ‘Love fucks you up, doesn’t it, diddums?’

Jesus Christ
. Jack had officially left the sane world. Everybody he knew was demented.

‘So the whole time, you and her,’ he said, his tone carrying a whiff of admiration. Then he sighed: it was
involuntary. The new disappointment was getting heavier by the second.

But knots were quickly undoing in his mind, too. He could see clearer now, the course of events, the steady clicking into place of all that had happened. Mainly he could see that he was an A-class fucking idiot. The first painful step of self-realisation on the road to Nirvana.

The detective slipped his gun into the holster at the small of his back. He grabbed his elbow and eased it across his chest, stretching his gun arm like a discus thrower preparing for a heat.

‘Nice plan,’ said Jack. ‘Ziggy fixes you up for delivering Kasprowicz, you get rid of a few relatives and the last bitch standing inherits the whole wad.’ Jack remembered what Peterson had said when he shot Durst:
May as well be now
. How far back had their plan gone? ‘All you got to do now is marry her,’ he added.

Peterson smiled broadly.

‘A lot of bodies round the place though, Detective. Must be worth it. What was Kasprowicz, ten million? Twenty million? Fifty? I suppose it doesn’t matter after five.’ Jack lifted his cuffed hands, scratched a cheek. ‘Is Ziggy paying extra or was the deal just you kill Kasprowicz for him and he gets rid of the body? The quick set-up of good ol’ Jack and then everybody catches up for a nice cold beer later? In Rio, maybe?’

The detective was still airing his teeth. ‘Who said Kasprowicz was dead? That’s going to be your job.’

Jack felt heat rise up his neck. ‘Where is he?’

‘Waiting. Somewhere. For you.’

There it was: the set-up. Nice and simple.
We’d like you
to hold this gun and shoot
. Jack knew nobody was going to give a crap about motive when all the i’s were dotted by forensics. Not when they saw he had worked for Ziggy Brandt once upon a time. Looked like Jack was going to get his initiation after all.

‘Sure Annabelle won’t do a runner with the cash?’ Jack wanted to change the subject.

‘I got insurance.’ Peterson’s tone was casual, smug.

Jack watched the detective light a cigarette. Thought some more. Then he grinned, nodded, understood. ‘The tapes,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the tapes of her in the sack.’ It was not Durst at all.

Peterson blew smoke, returned the cigarette pack to his pocket.

‘I’m not sure about these modern, open relationships,’ said Jack. ‘They never last.’

‘You finished talking?’

‘Have I missed anything?’

‘You think I’d touch that fucking whore?’ Peterson tapped ash to the floor. ‘You ain’t as smart as you think, Susko. You missed everything.’

Jack waited.

The detective laughed, dragged on his cigarette. ‘I got the tapes all right, but she ain’t fucking nobody.’ He rolled his neck, a little to the left, a little to the right: a couple of bones clicked. ‘What I got is her asking me to kill her old man. And her uncle. And her husband, too.’ He smoked some more, shook his head. ‘You’d think she would have remembered I’m a cop. We’ve got technology. It’s in all the fucking TV shows.’

‘Is that where you got your plan from, too?’

Peterson’s face darkened. ‘Just the bit about giving you the garrotte.’

Jack hoped Peterson did not see the shiver go down his spine. He nodded at the bodies of Celia and Durst. ‘Maybe you could throw something over them.’ Thoughts were banging around in his head, ringing like bells in a fire station.

There was the sound of a car below. As Peterson went over to the window to see, he said: ‘She didn’t do it just for the money.’

‘Maybe it was for a bit of fun?’ Jack’s tone was bitter. ‘The rich are easily bored.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time that was true, trust me.’ Peterson pushed the curtain aside with a finger. ‘But not Annabelle. She hated Kasprowicz’s guts.’

‘That’s nothing new. Why act on it now?’

‘New information,’ answered the cop blandly. ‘Opportunity. What else do you need?’

‘A dirty cop and a handcuffed sucker.’

Peterson wagged a threatening finger at Jack. ‘Don’t make me,’ he said. He turned back to the window. ‘Mainly it was she found out Kasprowicz wasn’t her old man. Impotent fuck.’

Jack absorbed the information slowly. The detective glanced at him over on the couch.

‘You ever meet that stupid bitch Sabine de Ruse?’ he asked. ‘She was married to Kasprowicz once. She found out he fired blanks. Squeezed money out of him ever since. Then after all these years she let it slip in front of Annabelle one night, pissed. All the botox must have got into her brain.’

Jack remembered something: Kass had had an affair with Annabelle’s mother
.
He thought about that for a moment. Kass was Annabelle’s real father. That’s why Kasprowicz was putting together his little book collection. A revenge work-in-progress. And Jack had been his research assistant.

What had MacAllister said?
You don’t know who’s drinking and who’s paying
. Jack was pretty sure he was going to be paying. He turned to Peterson, went to say something.

The detective was holding the mobile to his ear and held up his hand. ‘It’s me,’ he said after a moment. ‘Park your car further up and wait till I call you. Annabelle’s on her way.’

‘That the girlfriend?’ asked Jack.

Peterson put the phone back in his pocket. ‘Fiancée.’ He went out of the room and came back with a copper-coloured bedspread. He threw it over the bodies of Celia and Durst.

‘Almost there, Jack,’ he said, looking down at the bodies. ‘We’re almost there.’

23

D
ETECTIVE
G
EOFF
P
ETERSON
did not appear outwardly nervous but he paced the room, smoked, looked through the window a couple of times. He went into the kitchen and made himself a cup of instant coffee, found a tin full of biscuits. He grabbed one and dunked it into his cup, holding the buttery goodness close to his chin. It occurred to Jack that Peterson had been a kid — once.

Think
. Jack tried to wade through the swamp in his head. All he could focus on was how stupid he was. Was he any different from Durst? Suckered by a beautiful woman, completely out of his league. He was like a rabbit that had stumbled into an elephant shoot. And the whole slide into the mess had begun with a handful of goddamn poetry books.

‘So whose big idea was all this in the first place?’

Peterson wiped crumbs from the corners of his mouth. ‘What’s the difference?’ He sipped his coffee, then smiled as he swallowed, nodding his head. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re hoping Annabelle had nothing to do with it. She was forced to join in, had no choice,
blah blah blah
, mitigating circumstances. Sorry, Jackie boy. She’s up to her tits in it, and she’s standing on a box.’ He put the coffee cup down on the kitchen bench and lit a cigarette. ‘I told you already. Love fucks you up.’

Some time later, the sound of another car. ‘Here we go,’ said Peterson. He grinned and sat on the couch beside Jack. When they heard the knock on the door he called out: ‘Come in.’

Annabelle strode into the room and took off her sunglasses. Her hair was tied back, accentuating the fine bones of her face, the harmony of her lips, nose and eyes. Hardly any make-up. She was wearing a black V-neck jumper, tight-fitting denim jeans and black suede trainers with white lightning flashes emblazoned on the sides.

Jack sat up a little. ‘I’ve got the handcuffs ready,’ he said. ‘Just how you like it.’

Annabelle pushed the sunglasses into her red canvas shoulder bag and lifted her chin slightly. She looked down at Jack. She took in a slow breath through her nostrils and eased it out again — a sigh almost, but not quite. Her eyes dismissed him: pity mixed with contempt.

To Peterson, she said: ‘Well?’

The detective nodded at the bedspread on the floor.
Annabelle turned, stared at it, expressionless but for the faintest contraction in the corners of her eyes.

‘Both of them?’

‘Take a look.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Annabelle reached into her bag and pulled out a white envelope that looked like it contained a small paving brick. She tossed it to Peterson. He glanced at the contents then slipped the envelope into his inside pocket.

‘What about him?’

‘Ziggy’s boys should be here any minute.’

‘Then I’ll be off, Detective.’

Peterson stretched, reaching above his head with his long, monkey arms. ‘No you won’t,’ he said through a long exhale. ‘You’re staying right here.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I want you to meet my fiancée before you go.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Somebody walked into the room behind her.

‘Me.’

Annabelle swung around.

‘Hey Mum.’

Peterson had his gun out, pointed at Annabelle. Louisa walked across the room and sat down next to him on the arm of the couch. She took the gun from him, keeping it aimed at her mother. The detective beamed.

‘I borrowed your jacket,’ she said to Annabelle. ‘I hope that’s okay.’

Peterson reached out and rubbed her thigh. ‘It’s your jacket now, baby.’

Louisa leaned over and put her arm around his
shoulders. She kissed him on the side of the head, smiled at her mother.

Outside, all at once, rain began pouring down with a roar, pummelling the corrugated-iron roof.

Jack stared at Louisa’s smooth, unblemished nineteen-year-old face. Then he had a look at Peterson’s. Maybe somewhere deep down he had a beautiful soul.

‘We’ve discussed it and we want a traditional church wedding,’ said Louisa. ‘Something small and intimate.’

‘Who’s going to walk you down the aisle?’ asked Jack.

‘Maybe you can,’ replied Louisa without looking at him. ‘Or maybe not.’ The tone was beyond her years and all the more chilling for it.

‘I think Mr Susko might be busy.’ Peterson got up, walked over and stood beside Annabelle. The new son-in-law-to-be hugged her to him. She was still staring at her daughter.

‘Don’t look so shocked, Mother,’ said Peterson. ‘It’s a lot of money you’re getting. Turn the Pope against God.’

‘And I love him, Mum.’

‘And I love her, too,
Mum
.’ Peterson was smiling like a spoilt kid born too close to Christmas, who always got two presents. Jack hated those kids.

‘Does anybody have a cigarette?’ asked Annabelle.