Faces in the Rain (7 page)

‘Benns wouldn't say, but it doesn't sound good for you. I've suggested that you and I go into Homicide offices in St Kilda Road of our own volition. It'll look better.'

Mike Tyson had just punched me in the solar plexus.

‘You've no idea what that evidence could be?' I said.

‘Benns wasn't going to pass that on. They want to hit you with it. He sounded almost gleeful.'

I collected my thoughts. Believe me, they were scattered.

‘I'll tell Benns you're coming in?'

‘OK,' I replied reluctantly.

‘What time?'

‘Hell, I don't know. I want to get home first and . . .'

‘Good idea. Take in anything you want. You know, reading matter.'

‘They're going to detain me?'

‘It's possible. Of course, if you're charged, we'll do our best to arrange bail.'

‘You mean they mightn't accept bail?'

‘It's becoming tough. So many people, particularly embezzlers, have skipped the country on bail.'

I cursed all embezzlers, and myself for getting into such a mess. Then I took the curse back. To use an Americanism, I had been stiffed. There had to be a way out, but at that tender moment I couldn't see it. I felt like
the proverbial rat. Cornered.

‘So what time tonight?' Hewitt pressed me.

‘Ten p.m.?'

‘That's late, Duncan.'

‘I've got important business.'

‘Nothing more important than this! But all right, I'll try. If you don't hear from me, that's the time.'

Dr Morris was on the line. I assured Hewitt I'd be on time and picked up the call.

‘Cassie Morris here,' she said. I liked the sound of her voice. Somehow even in that stressful moment it soothed me, just a little.

‘I've got a proposition I want to put to you,' I said.

‘An offer I can't refuse?'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘you saw
The Godfather?'

‘Sure, about five times. Eight if you count re-runs on TV. One of my favourite movies.'

I wanted to tell her she gave good phone. Very relaxed. Lot of character. She must have been uptight in that meeting.

‘You remember the scene where Sollozo the Turk is trying to persuade the Godfather to get into drugs?' I asked.

‘Very well. The Don didn't like it.'

‘But Sonny Corleone, his son, did.'

‘The Turk was alerted,' Cassie said, ‘he thought he could reach Sonny. Get him on side.'

‘Yes. The Don dresses his son down after the meeting. “Never contradict the Godfather in front of business.” Well that's how I felt with you at the meeting.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘Walters was the Godfather and I was the greasy Sollozo trying to get you into something.'

Cassie laughed. It was a pleasant musical laugh and
the first hint that I might get somewhere.

‘I was wondering if you would have dinner with me,' I said.

‘Well, I . . .'

‘Tonight?'

‘It's . . .'

‘Could change your entire life.'

She laughed.

‘Pick you up at your home at seven,' I said.

‘It might be a little difficult. I have a lover.'

‘If he's new, it doesn't matter. If he's a real man and a longstanding friend, he'll understand.'

‘You don't understand.'

‘New or old?'

‘New.'

‘Then keep him on his toes. Anyway, this is strictly business.'

‘How about lunch sometime?'

‘Nope. Has to be tonight. Urgent. Tell him it's a terrific job offer.'

‘Can't. You see, it's Peter Walters.'

‘Oh.'

There was a pause. I could tell she was in two minds. I waited. I had said enough.

‘Look,' she said finally, ‘be here at eight. The top apartment, number five Lawson Grove, just off Caroline Street. Near the river.'

I was on my way home when I called Farrar on the car phone. I told him about my St Kilda Road rendezvous in a few hours time.

‘That's why I was trying to call you,' he said. There was an edge to his tone. ‘Don't say any more. Remember where Lloyd used to take us for a drink after work sometimes?'

‘Oh, the . . .'

‘Don't say it! Just get there. Park the car some distance from it. Make sure you're not followed.'

Lloyd had taken us to the Botanical Hotel, known as the Bot, in South Yarra, opposite the gardens. I also remembered drinking there in my late teens when it was a run-of-the-mill crowded bar with poor facilities. Like most hotels it had been gutted, renovated and dolled up for a classier clientele with plenty of money.

Tony was waiting for me in a corner where you could hear yourself speak. I chose a light ale because I wanted to be lucid for tonight's Police HQ encounter, and Tony switched from whisky to a Bloody Mary.

‘Didn't want you talking on the phone,' he began in hushed tones, ‘you're under surveillance.' He glanced towards the door.

‘Then perhaps we could find a less public place.'

‘We're OK. I can spot one of Benns' boys in here blindfolded.'

He used a straw to sip half the Bloody Mary. The sound effects were well-practised. Farrar belched.

‘I had a long chat to Benns and O'Dare,' he said.

‘So I noticed.'

‘Don't worry. Told them I had a rich woman client friend of Martine's who wanted to know who bumped her off. They bought it. They're happy to have me help. Especially as Fadi Fazmi's somehow involved.'

‘Who?'

‘Did you see Karl Krogen there with a guy in a safari suit? That was Fazmi. He's a suspected terrorist.'

‘Why is he allowed in the country?'

‘He applied like anyone else. ASIO will let him run for a while. They want to know what he's up to. He has a twenty-four-hour watch on him.'

‘And what
is
he up to?' I was watching the door more than Farrar.

‘Not sure. Benns believes he's here to upset the Frogs. You know. A bomb in a consulate building, an attack in New Caledonia – that sort of thing. But it may be something bigger. The only thing that's for sure is the fact that the French and the Libyans are carrying on their feud in the Pacific. It started in Chad when the Libyans pushed the French out. All through the eighties, Gaddafi tried to belittle Mitterand by helping – through training and weapons – New Caledonia Kanak separatists to kill Frenchmen.'

I took more beer and contemplated the ever-expanding web I'd fallen into. Libyans. French. Hookers. Questionable old school mates. Armed prowlers. Private dicks. I didn't need any of them.

‘I wish they'd all drown,' I mumbled.

‘What?'

‘In the Pacific,' I said. ‘Forget it. Tell me about Benns and O'Dare. Do they really suspect me?'

‘There are several suspects.'

‘What did they say about me?'

‘They were suspicious of my connection to you. When I settled that they said they thought you had lied to them. They didn't think you'd murdered her, but they suspected she was involved with you.'

‘Not true.'

‘I didn't defend you. They asked me if you had hookers. I laughed that off. They said you had divorced your wife. They'd been doing their homework. Benns is thorough. O'Dare's too nice to be a homicide investigator – got there because she's bright and ambitious and well-connected, but I'd give her two years, three at most. I've seen very, very tough men wilt in that job.'

‘Terry Hewitt tells me they have a new piece of evidence,' I said, feeling my way, ‘any idea what that is?'

‘Benns told Hewitt that?'

I nodded.

‘Reckon it's bluff. They're not going to tell a top crim lawyer they've got the dope on his client unless there's a scare motive.' Farrar finished his drink and stood up to get another. He leaned close to me. ‘It's bullshit, and if Hewitt doesn't see that, he's gettin' soft.'

Farrar waded into the crowd at the bar and people made way. There were one or two men as tall as him, but none with his beef or meanness. He returned with two more Bloody Marys, one for the inner man and the other for the beefy outer layer. ‘On the off-chance you ended up in the slammer,' he said, ‘how am I gunna get paid?'

I wrote out a cheque for ten days work and added another thousand for expenses, which came to six thousand in all. Farrar seemed satisfied.

‘If it takes longer than that,' I said, ‘I'll mail another four thousand to you.'

He grunted and pocketed the cheque. He looked up, eyes darting. I glanced at the window facing Domain Road. ‘What's the matter?'

‘The same guy slipped past a second time.'

‘Police?'

‘Nar. It was one of the Frogs at the funeral.'

‘Which one?'

‘The skinny one who dresses like a poof. Name's Maniguet.' Farrar chewed on the word so badly that I got him to write it on a drinks coaster.

‘Works for a perfume company, called Vital. So does the other one, the bruiser. His name is Cochard.' Farrar scribbled that out too.

‘You got onto them quickly.'

‘Easy. I checked out their vehicle registration. It was under the company name with two men authorised to drive it. I rang the company and asked the woman on the switch a few questions.'

Maniguet sauntered past the window again. It was six thirty and dark and he still wore sunglasses.

‘We'd better get out of here,' Farrar said, downing his drinks like water.

We hustled out through the restaurant to an alley leading away from Domain Road and into Park Street, which was painfully familiar to me.

‘I'll ring Hewitt tomorrow,' Farrar said, shaking hands, ‘good luck tonight.'

I found the Rolls and got in. I felt alone and down as I drove off down Toorak Road. Traffic was heavy and we crawled along with many stops for lights. After a couple of kilometres I noticed a frisky red Fiat slipping in and out of the traffic. I lost it halfway home and thought nothing of it, except that I was plagued by the fear that the police, Maniguet, or even the night prowler could he following me. Any sudden movement in the traffic or the street put me on edge. Too much so. Twice I reached under the seat to touch the butt of the Heckler & Koch, which was taped under the driver's seat. Its cold steel and plastic was minimal comfort.

I slipped up the driveway of my home and stopped as usual beside the tennis court. I fumbled round for my briefcase and by fluke glanced in the rear vision mirror. Did I see movement in the bushes by the court? I kept staring.

Somebody was out there.

It wasn't Fui or Tomi; they would have greeted me. I bent forward and groped for the gun. In that split second
a bullet exploded the driver's window. Two, three, four more shattered the front window and the noise sounded like I was being attacked from everywhere.

I crouched under the steering wheel, pushed open the driver's door and fired blindly at a shape that was moving towards me. I fired again. The shadow dived into the bushes. I fired a third time, started the car and reversed recklessly down the driveway. I could hear the Tashesitas shouting from the front door, but I didn't stop backing until I was in the street and had done a reverse one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.

I sped up to Toorak Road, but was forced to brake hard behind a tram and manoeuvre to the right. The Fiat was in pursuit. I passed the tram the wrong way just as it started moving and caused oncoming traffic to swerve to avoid me.

The Fiat followed in a move more maniacal than mine. In the chaos I thought I saw two shapes in the front of the pursuing vehicle.

I wanted to dial emergency, but needed all my hand skills to negotiate traffic. I was still gripping the gun. The Fiat gained on me. A rifle was being angled out a window. I turned left along Orrong Road as a shot was fired.

It missed and the Fiat had careered on up Toorak Road. I gunned the Rolls until I hit Malvern Road but didn't wait for lights and ran a red, much to the anger of cars all round me. I placed the gun on the passenger seat and tried to dial emergency. My fingers wouldn't behave. They were good for gripping a wheel or a gun and little else. I wriggled the Rolls along several streets until I was near a railway station. It was Hawksburn and a street from the garage where the Rolls was serviced.

I held the gun in my lap and dialled emergency. After an agonising delay, a woman took details. I couldn't wait more than a minute so I crawled the Rolls down to my mechanic's yard and got out. There was a light on in the workshop. I banged on the tiny door. A man stopped whistling and dropped a tool on the concrete floor.

‘Yeah, yeah, I com'n!'

He played with the door. A grease-smeared face appeared. It was Bobby, a mechanic I had known for years. He went white when he saw the Heckler.

‘Mr Hamilton!'

I jumped in.

‘What's wrong!?'

‘Someone's been taking potshots at me. The Rolls is full of holes.'

He laughed nervously at my unintentional rhyme.

‘You want it repaired?'

‘Well yes . . .' I said, stunned by his devotion to duty. His hand went out for the keys, which I gave him. A car sped down the street.

‘How do I get out?' I said, already running into the heart of the workshop. Bobby ran after me. Car doors slammed. Feet ran down the pavement. A fist hammered on the door.

Bobby led me to a side door.

‘What am I gunna do?' he said, terror-stricken.

‘Don't let them in,' I said, slipping away. A voice called ‘Police', but I wasn't in a mood to believe anyone. I raced down a narrow lane which took me up to the train station. A train was coming in. I jumped on. It shunted out and I had a view of the garage entrance, where I had left poor Bobby to deal with the visitors. They had been police after all. He was scratching his head and pointing at my mutilated vehicle.