Wyatt - 04 - Cross Kill (9 page)

The woman slid a pamphlet across the
kitchen table. Private prison. Only been open three months.

Eileen looked to Ross for a clue.
Her husband had one arm hooked over the back of the kitchen chair, the other
outstretched to an ashtray on the table. He tapped off a centimetre of ash,
raised the cigarette, drew on it, blew a ring to the ceiling. He wasnt going
to help her. Hed listen while the woman talked, but she was government,
meaning that was all hed do. Plus which, hed been black and brooding since
the arrest, ready to wash his hands of their son.

Its privately owned and managed,
the woman said. Like the ones in Queensland.

Eileen skimmed the pamphlet. There
were artists impressions of long, narrow buildings laid out in the form of a
hexagon, the open ground in the middle crisscrossed with sheltered walkways.
There were smudges that were trees and several lines of cheery text about the
philosophy of the place. American and Australian money was behind it. You
learn something new every day, Eileen said. What are the screws like in a
place like this?

The woman put her little hands
together in her lap and tightened her little mouth. We dont call them screws,
we call them

A screws a screw, Rossiter said,
then stopped, irritated with himself for getting involved. Eileen cut in: When
can we visit him?

Tomorrow morning, if you like.

Ross said no, so on Thursday morning
Eileen drove herself in the VW. The Bolte Remand Centre was on a grassy plain
west of the city, close to Melton, close to muddied tracts of land where unsold
houses reproduced themselves among billboards, snakes of bitumen and ribbons of
new kerbing. But there were also established estates with Hills Hoists in the
backyards, cars in the carports, tricycles on the pockets of lawn, and Eileen
guessed that those people had things to say, living right next door to a
prison.

She saw the razor wire first, coiled
around the perimeter fence, viciously reflecting the sun. There were several
inner fences, heavy gates, then the low buildings with their corrugated roofs
and barred windows, everything new looking, all metal, no wood anywhere and no
grass to speak of. What she really hated, what she could feel winding and
slicing around her body, was the razor wire. It was slung across fences and at
ground level around the buildings as if someone had opened a lid on a box of
evil objects.

It took her forty-eight minutes to
pass through to the visiting room. Inside the Bolte it was one door after
another and all of them heavy, locked. There were screws for escorting, screws
for buzzing the doors open, screws for poking around in your handbag, patting
you down, running a metal detector over you. The screws seemed more dead than
alive, but sullen and dangerous with it. They were overweight, and if they
spoke the accents were Pommie. One man ran his metal detector idly over the
brass end of a fire hose, and the squawl set Eileens nerves on end. He did it
again, he did it ten times while Eileen waited to be buzzed through. There were
plenty of people milling around, Eileen didnt know who they were, and for some
reason none of them minded that hellish sound.

She waited at a plastic table,
plastic so you couldnt brain anyone with it. There were wives, sweethearts, a
couple of whole families in the visiting room. Niall swaggered, curling his
lip, as he came in from the cells, but when he saw her he dropped the act and
she could see the anxiety under it. There were others like him in the Bolte, a
brotherhood of skinheads, so she hoped there were people to protect him in the
showers, but still, under it all he was only twenty-one. Like half the men in
the place he wore shorts, blue stubbies, work boots and an institution-brown
windcheater. She leaned over and kissed him. Hello, son.

Good on you, Mum. The old man
wouldnt stir himself?

Hell get over it.

He must have a short memory. Hes
done more time than Ill ever do.

You can see his point, though, son.
What possessed you to wave that crossbow around?

Fuckin wog had it coming.

Eileen let it go. They shouldve
given you bail.

Then Nialls face crumpled. I cant
stick it, Mum. Not again. He grabbed her forearm and dropped his voice. Cant
we give them Wyatt? You know, dont let on to the old man weve done it?
Christ, Wyatt should be worth every bloke in here and half the blokes in
Pentridge.

Eileen put her hand over his. Shed
been playing with this idea herself.

Hes got to be putting a job
together, Niall went on. He didnt come around just to apologise and chat
about old times.

Eileen knew exactly what Wyatt had
in mind. Ross had let it slip. Late at night, in the comfort and darkness, his
bony flank cushioned against her, Ross liked to murmur to her, end-of-the-day
murmuring, after love and before sleep, expressing hopes and doubts. It was
something theyd done together since the first night. Pushing down her guilt,
Eileen said, I think you could be right.

Niall said in a rush, Look, have a
word with Napper. Tell him I want out of remand straight away and I want a
suspended sentence.

Wouldnt it be better if you talked
to him yourself?

Christ, no. Niall leaned back,
folded his arms. My reputation would be shot if I did that. If the others knew
hed been here theyd think Im dogging them and Id wake up with a shank in my
guts. Has to be you, Mum.

Eileen closed her eyes, picturing a
biro with a razor melted into the end of it, a canteen fork with a sharpened
handle. Just then a loudspeaker crackled into life. It was unintelligible but
prisoners were standing and screws were coming into the room, so Eileen knew
her time was up. Not a word of this to Dad.

Mum, Niall said, you have to get
Napper onto this straight away.

She left the prison. The heartache
in her sons face and voice had Eileen chafing in frustration at every one of
the doors and gates, every one of the dozy screws that passed for human beings
in that place.

* * * *

Sixteen

Two
days ago Napper had been hassled by his solicitor, then by a whole lot of women
snapping wet towels at his legs. This morning his ex-wifes solicitor had had a
go at him, ringing him at work, reminding him of the court order, reminding him
he was nine thousand bucks behind. So now Napper was knocking on a door in
Richmond, a move he hoped would help him reduce that nine thousand.

The house was owned by a man called
Malan and it presented a face full of bluster and threat. No trespassing and protected
by electronic surveillance stickers were plastered to the fence, gate, windows
and doors, and, judging by the sounds coming from inside, the front door had
been triple-locked. As if that would keep the junkies out. Napper waited.

Malan opened the door. He was
slight, greying, pursing unhappy lips in a wedge-shaped head. His face always
seemed out of kilter to Napper, as if something on it was missing or lacking in
size. Councillor Malan himself, Napper said. Just the man I want to see.

Malan regarded him carefully. What
about?

Business.

Malan stepped aside and extended his
arm into the hall. The house smelt of hot stale air. Napper saw four cats in
the doorway, come to see who had arrived. Cat fur was caught in the hall rug.
Malan led the way to a back room and waited while Napper sat down before
sitting himself. What do you want?

I dont know if you remember our
little talk a while back, Napper said. That ALP fundraising bash?

I remember it.

Malan was being sour and wary, so
Napper held up a calming hand. Take it easy, old son. Im not here to arrest
you.

It was just talk, Malan said. I
was drunk. You havent got a thing to arrest me on.

Napper glanced around the dim room. You
need a skylight in here. He sorted idly through some leaflets and magazines in
the rack next to his chair. Ah, here we are. It was a handbill. It read
Stop
the Asian Invasion.

Malan said, Somebody slipped it
under the door.

Sure they did.

Malan scowled. Spit it out, Napper.

Napper rested his forearms on his
knees and butted his big head into the space between them. You remember how
you told me Eddie Ng has got the numbers to make mayor next month?

Malan nodded curtly.

Well, I ve been reading the local
rag, listening around the local waterholes. I reckon youre right.

Boat people own half of Victoria
Street, Malan said passionately. Now they want to take over local government.

Exactly, Napper said. I mean,
where will it end?

Malan said nothing. They were
watching each other. Napper spoke first. What are your chances of making
mayor, if Councillor Ng was out of the running?

First rate.

Napper leaned back. He tried to lace
his fingers behind his head, but that strangled his circulation. He swung forward
again. Ive been going over what you said, something about a fear campaign?

It was just talk.

No it wasnt. Youre a worried man.
Im
a worried man. I grew up around here. I dont like to see it going
downhill any more than you do.

Malans long fingers slipped in and
out of his pockets as if searching for somewhere to rest. What have you got in
mind?

Napper said quietly, Eddie Ng runs
a restaurant just around the corner from Church Street. You said it yourself,
he walks up and down and they all love him. We need to wipe the smile off his
face. Napper tried folding his arms. Im your man.

Its not enough to wipe the smile
off his face. Hes got to resign from Council.

And we can pursuade him. An
anonymous strike out of nowhere. Hell get the message. If he doesnt, well
hit again.

Malan watched him for a while. Whats
in it for you?

Nothing grand or elaborate,
according to the look Napper gave him. Order restored, the white man on top.
Plus that three thousand you mentioned.

I didnt mention any three
thousand.

Napper was hard and precise. Mate,
thats exactly what you did mention. I made a note of it in my book after.

Supposing I had three thousand to
give you. What do you propose? Beat him up? Bomb his place? He lives above the
restaurant.

His car, Napper said. People get
attached to their cars. Damage one and you cause a lot of grief. The restaurant
is too risky, too many people could get hurt.

How will you do it?

A small charge.

A timer? Malan leaned forward, his
face alight. A radio signal maybe?

Too fussy, Napper said. Mercury.
That way the victim detonates the bomb himself.

How so?

The object is to throw a scare into
him, correct?

Malan nodded.

Two little pools of mercury in the
boot of the car or somewhere, Napper said, a small lump of explosive, plus
blasting cap and battery. The target gets into the car, the motion rocks the
mercury pools so they run together, theres an electrical connection,
pow!
The
beauty of it is, the explosion is directly related to his getting into the car.
It doesnt hurt him, blows the boot lid up maybe, but it sure as hell scares
the shit out of him.

When?

As soon as I get paid, Napper
said.

How do I know this isnt a set-up?

Napper leaned forward again. He was
quiet and solid when he said, Ill level with youI need the money. Plus I cant
stand these chinks. He got heated. Jesus Christ, the Departments even got me
down for a community policing course, learn how to get on with the bastards,
can you believe it?

Three thousand.

Tell you what, Ill make it easy
for you. Half now, half on delivery.

He declined tea or coffee. He told
Malan that he wanted to get moving on this. They left the house and walked
through to the Westpac on Bridge Road. Half an hour later, Napper was back at
the station with fifteen hundred in his pocket.

At one oclock a call was put
through to his desk phone. A womans voice said, Sergeant Napper, please.

Youve got him.

The woman had started strongly, but
now she was silent. Can I help you? Napper said.

Eileen Rossiter here.

He got remand, Eileen. Nothing I
could do about it. These things arent up to me.

I know. Ive been to seen him.

Again she clammed up, so Napper
said, Neither of us is getting any younger, Eileen.

She said with a rush, What are the
chances of bail? I mean, is it too late?

Theoretically, no, the powers that
be could put in a good word, kind of thing. But you know, theyd have to have a
reason.

Maybe I can give you one, Eileen
said.

Like what?

Information.

Depends on the quality of the
information.