Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (17 page)

Eileen said, I told you all that.

I had to be sure.

This Napper wasnt very bright. Dont
underestimate Wyatt, Eileen said. Hes hard. My old man reckons hes hard. Hes
been known to kill if hes crossed or cornered or provoked.

Yeah, sure. What else does your old
man say?

Eileen had been over all this
before. She wondered if Napper had a short attention span, or took a while to
grasp things. Hes single-minded. You cant get at him through his family
because as far as anyone knows he hasnt got one. If theres a woman, no one
knows about it.

How did he get started?

Eileen remembered an old story of
Rossiters. She didnt know how true it was. He started ripping off stuff in
the army. Equipment, a payroll.

Napper looked away, concentrating,
putting together a profile of a man who had skills and compulsion and hadnt
been stopped. It amused Eileen to see the policeman disconcerted. She rocked
playfully against him. So, does he sound like someone wholl hit the Mesics?

Napper jerked his shoulders away. Fuck
off. He looked at her. Its not his style. Hes never been known to hit other
crooks.

I told you, he reckons they ripped
him off last year. She rocked against him again. Can you stop him?

Napper stared moodily at the fire. Tell
me about his friends.

You think you can get a handle on
him that way? I wish you luck. He hasnt got any.

Your husband gave you a second
name.

Jardine, Eileen said. Hes not a
friend, hes someone Wyatts worked with before. Sydney based.

And you say they both showed up in
Melbourne yesterday? Could mean theyre already setting it up. I hope your old
mans got sense enough to stay out of it.

Hes strictly in the background.
You lay off him.

Napper grinned. It would help if I
knew their movements.

Eileen stood up, throwing off the
foul blanket. Ive paid my dues.

Napper said, staring at the fire, Wouldnt
it be a funny thing if new information came to light about young Niall. It
would mean Id have to cancel his release order. Wouldnt it be a shame if your
old man heard you were talking to the cops? That would really stuff things up.

Eileen waited but Napper wouldnt
turn his head around to look at her. She went to his bathroom, a region of
cracked tiles, grout mould and soap-scummed water-lines, sponged all traces of
him from her skin, and returned to her clothes heaped on the dusty carpet. She dragged
them on, the comfortable feline grace gone from her movements. She said
savagely, Ill see what I can find out.

Good on you, Mrs R.

* * * *

Twenty-nine

On
Tuesday morning Wyatt directed the Silver Top driver to the end of a side
street that ran north from Doncaster Road. When the cab was gone he walked back
to Doncaster Road, turned left and set out for the Doncaster and Templestowe
municipal offices, ten blocks away.

Cars and buses hurtled by him on
Doncaster Road. He seemed to be unaware of them. Drivers and their passengers
saw a tall, loose-limbed man wearing cord trousers and a dark windbreaker.
Those waiting at traffic lights had time to take in the coiled hands loose at
his sides and the dark cast of his face, too forbidding to be called sad or
tired. Wyatt didnt look at them, but he knew they were there. If they meant
him harm, he would know it.

The lights changed. He crossed with
the traffic, wreathed in exhaust gases. Generally walking relaxed him, helped
him to see past the clutter surrounding an operation, helped him to concentrate
only on what related to it. But too many things were related to this job. It
was messy and he was being bankrolled by people who had reason to kill him when
it was all over.

He laughed aloud, a bleak bark,
startling a jogger. She marked time with him at the dont walk sign, watching
his hands, trying to catch his eye. He ignored her.

The lights changed and he stepped
off the kerb. A van turning left braked abruptly, the driver leaning on the
horn, trying to bluff him. Wyatt stopped, his knees centimetres from the vans
front bumper, and stared at the driver. Something in his face drained the
bluster out of the man, for there was a shrug and a show of teeth in a weak
grin. Wyatt crossed the road.

Normally he liked preparing for a
hit. Long periods of inactivity induced a lethargy that he sometimes found hard
to shake off. The last few days had seen plenty of activity, but it had seemed
somehow pointless, not forceful, concentrated or useful. He would be glad when
they finally hit the Mesic compound. It would be the final stage; hed feel
compact then, contained, doing what he did best, with the end in sight.

The municipal offices were two
blocks ahead. He found himself thinking about the period after the Mesic hit.
He would have funds again. He would go to ground somewhere, invest some of the
money, live in comfort.

That wouldnt be enough, though. It
never was. He found himself thinking about Rose, the Outfits killer. He could
feel her out there somewhere. Women like her were not new to him. They were
rarely mentioned in the newspapers, but they existed. The sort of women the
tabloids got excited about were single-mother welfare cheats, husband poisoners
and nightclub singers who faked their disappearance for the sake of a newspaper
headline. The papers wouldnt know what to do with a woman like Rose, a
professional, sharp and low key. Theyd trot out stock phrases to describe her
figure, her hair, the clothes she liked to wear, but then theyd flounder,
unable to imagine what made her tick.

Then he thought about the Mesics. Hed
directed the cab driver to take him past the compound and the place had looked
as complacent, as ripe for a hit, as it always had. The odds hadnt lengthened.
Jardine was there somewhere, noting movements, times, new faces.

The municipal offices were housed in
a glass and cement complex that smelt of yesterdays cigarette smoke and
perfume. Wyatt asked for the planning office and was directed to a boxed-in
glass cubicle at the rear of the building.

The planning officer wore blue suit
trousers, white shirt and red tie. Several drafting pens were leaking into his
top pocket. He had the kind of blurred features that the eye fails to register
clearly: watery eyes, pinkish skin, limp, sparse hair.

My rights are being infringed upon,
Wyatt said.

The planning officer looked
anxiously at him. Sorry?

Wyatt rested his hands on the edge
of the counter. The man across the road from me has put up an ugly great
fence. Not only does it obscure the view, its hideous. There should be a law
saying if you build something in public view it has to be aesthetically
pleasing.

The clerk stepped back. The ID card
attached to his belt said his name was Colin Thomas. The procedure is to
appeal at the planning stage, Thomas said.

Unfortunately I was away, Mr
Thomas.

Thomas relaxed a little, hearing his
name. It really is too late. Im sorry.

Wyatt leaned forward again. Its
not too late. Ive checked. You can still be forced to dismantle something.

A fence, you say?

Wyatt nodded, giving him the
address. A big place on Telegraph Road, Wyatt said. People called Mesic own
it.

A series of expressions passed
across Thomass face guilt, apprehension, resignation. Hes been bought, Wyatt
thought. The Mesics must have sweetened the passage of their planning approval
with a few hundred dollars here and there. Do you know the place I mean?

I think so. Everything was in order
concerning that application.

Oh, Im not doubting you, Wyatt
said. Its the system thats at fault.

Thomas nodded, unable to conceal his
relief.

However, Wyatt went on, I do have
rights. I would like something to be done.

Itll mean a lot of paperwork. Youll
have to have all the facts right. Im afraid Im not in a position to do that
for you.

Wyatt took out his wallet. He drew
out fifty dollars of Keplers money and rested his hand on it on the counter
top. I understand, he said. If I could have a few minutes with the plans
lodged for the place in question, I could make a note of all relevant details.
As he spoke he used his forefinger to push the money across the counter a
millimetre at a time. Folio numbers, dimensions, things like that.

Thomass hand snatched up the fifty.
Ill see what I can do.

He returned ten minutes later with a
bundle of folders and blueprints. Theres a table in the next room you can
use. Id be grateful if you didnt

He paused. Wyatt finished for him: Mention
this to anyone? No problem. He gave the man a further twenty. And you wont
mention Ive been here.

Wyatt left half an hour later. He
knew the dimensions of the compound fence and the position of everything inside
it, and he had floor plans of the two houses. Hed made fair hand-drawn copies,
showing doors, windows, staircases, distances. He noted the position of the
fuse boxes, gas and water mains, underground power and phone cables. When the
time came hed be able to walk through the Mesic compound with his eyes closed.

Once hed found a way in, that is.

* * * *

Thirty

On
Wednesday afternoon Rossiter delivered boltcutters, plastic explosive and
radios. When he was gone, Wyatt examined the boltcutters. They were Taiwanese,
cheaply made and too small. Were going shopping, he said. He didnt want
their faces to be remembered by some clerk in a hardware store, so he said to
Jardine, Well try pawnbrokers. Wyatt felt strangely allied to pawnbrokers.
Pawnbrokers were always being hassled by cops with stolen goods lists. Smith
Street, he said, and he let Jardine drive one of the two rental cars they were
using.

They drove in silence. Then, in a
bottleneck in Clifton Hill, where men in hardhats were ripping up the
tramtracks, Jardine said, The Mesic womans having it off with some geezer.

Wyatt looked at him.

Lunchtime yesterday, again today.

Where? Her place?

Jardine shook his head. I decided
to follow her. She met him on the edge of the city, they got in her car, and
they drove to a flat in South Yarra. He fished a scrap of paper from his
pocket. Heres the address.

Describe him.

Tallish, wears a suit or classy
casual clothes, but somehow he doesnt look corporate, if you know what I mean.
Very wary, kept looking around when he got into her car and went into the flat.
Drives a red sports car, dont ask me what kind.

Ive seen him, Wyatt said. I
think he used to visit her at home. Somethings made them more careful.

In Collingwood Jardine parked
outside a Vietnamese grocery. Wyatt fed the meter and jerked his head at
Jardine to follow him. There had always been dusty furniture shops, Greek
coffee bars, op shops, fabric discounters and seconds clothing shops along
Smith Street, but the recession had brought in pawnshops as well, though not
all of them called themselves that.

The first pawnshop had a security
grille bolted to the windows. Poster paint on the glass said, Cash for
everything. They went in.

A man was reading a book behind the
counter, sucking the ends of his moustache into his mouth as he concentrated.
He saw them come in, threw the book down and beamed. Help you, gentlemen?

I need a heavy-duty boltcutter,
Wyatt said.

Boltcutters, boltcutters, the man
said. Lets see. He peered into the glass cabinets that lined three sides of
the shop. From one of them he drew out a small hand implement. Got a good pair
of tinsnips.

Wyatt said, Come on, and led
Jardine out of the shop. Behind them the man called, Try us next week.

A sour-looking husband and wife team
ran the second pawnshop. They watched Wyatt and Jardine without expression and
seemed to miss nothing. They had heard a lot of hard luck stories in their time
and clearly they expected to hear another one today.

I need a heavy boltcutter, Wyatt
said.

There was no response from the
woman. Her husband expelled air through his nostrils. It might have been
laughter, it might have been cynicism. I bet you do, he said.

Wyatt waited.

Eventually the man said, Cant help
you.

They went into a third pawnshop.
There Wyatt didnt have to ask for a boltcutter. One about a metre long was
gathering dust among tangled radio parts and tape recorder spools in a display
case. He paid the asking price, thirty-five dollars, and left the shop.

Jardine fell into step with him. Togs
next?

Wyatt looked at his watch. Its
five-fifty. Weve got ten minutes.

The Sgro Clothing Emporium sold
cheap acrylic and cotton clothingjeans, dresses, T-shirts, tracksuitsas well
as sheets and pillowcases. Wind gusted into the shop, stirring the plastic
earrings and hairbands on the display stands next to the cash registers.
Exposed pipes ridged the walls and ceiling. The linoleum floor was torn and
buckled. A small, elderly man smiled at them from the shadows. He had a tape
measure around his neck. Yes, yes, he said, flapping his hands at them. You
look, you see something you like.