Peter Corris - The Big Score

‘Stairs or lift?’ I said.

‘Stairs every time. Gotta keep moving, going to be a long time still.’

He went down the stairs at a pretty good clip, not using the handrail, talking the whole time.

‘Don’t get old, Mr Hardy, and don’t retire. When you’re working you reckon retirement looks great-all the time in the world to read, play golf, watch telly, whatever. Doesn’t work out like that.’

Just to have something to say, I asked him what he did before he retired.

‘I was an accountant. I thought that was boring and it was, but this is worse. Look, we’ll cut across here and get down to the trees and I can show you a few things.’

We walked over a stretch of parkland, through a patch of scrub and reached the trees. A stand of a dozen or more in two rows, they towered over us with a light breeze stirring the fronds. One was bare, as if it had been sandblasted.

‘A couple of things to notice,’ Ivens said. He was enjoying himself. ‘See the holes around the trunk of the sick one? They go pretty deep and are spaced out. These bastards knew what they were doing. See how dark it is here even though the light’s still good? No street lights, nothing. It’d be pitch dark at night. They’d do it with a battery drill. You can muffle the sound of those things easily.’

I examined the tree. All I know about trees is that their roots lift and crack the tiles at my place, they get into the pipes and the leaves clog the guttering. Still, I like them well enough to have sympathised with Young and Ivens.

‘You said bastards-plural. Wouldn’t it be a one-man job?’

‘Don’t think so. Easy enough to drill and pour, but-’

‘Someone has to hold the torch.’

He chuckled. ‘Right.’

‘You reckon they know what they’re doing. Sounds as if you’ve studied up on this.’

‘I have. The internet’s a wonderful thing. That’s why I can tell when the next attack’s likely to happen.’

‘If you can do that, you’ve practically done my job for me.’

He beckoned, ‘Come over here.’

He showed me two trees in the next row close to the dying one. I couldn’t see anything wrong with their trunks, but he scratched with a Swiss Army knife and revealed the drill holes. He caught the material he’d dislodged in his hand.

‘Cunning buggers sort of puttied them up.’

‘More evidence that they know what they’re about.’

‘Yeah, but I’m reminded of a couple of my clients who tried to be too bloody smart.’

Ivens set about carefully repairing the damage, using the blade, the stuff he’d trapped and saliva. I let him have his moment of triumph and looked back towards the line of houses, a cluster really, that would benefit from the enhanced view. Something about them struck me as odd, but I couldn’t pin it down.

Ivens finished his repair work and indicated to me that it was time to go, so we started back through the scrub.

‘As I said, Mr Hardy-’

‘Cliff

‘Cliff, I’m Chester-never liked it but I got stuck with it. As I said, this retirement stuff’s got whiskers and I’m glad to have something interesting to deal with. I’d be pleased if you’d come back to my place, have a drink and I can sort of spell it out for you.’

‘Glad to, Chester,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a feeling you’re going to be even more useful.’

Ivens’s flat was a duplicate of Youngs but it was set up in a very different way-much less neat, many more books and state-of-the-art TV, stereo and computer gear. He said he was having trouble filling in the time, but he was giving it his best shot.

‘I’ve become fond of vodka and tonic,’ he said after he’d shown me around. ‘What would you say?’

‘I’ll be in it. Thanks.’

In the kitchen he took the Smirnoff and Schweppes tonic out of the fridge with a tray of ice cubes. He sliced a lemon. ‘I like to make a good strong one and have it last. I find I drink less that way.’

The drink had a kick all right, welcome at the end of the day. Ivens sat down at his computer and I pulled up a chair, prepared to be bored as his fingers tapped the keys. I’m slow with this stuff, he was fast. He found the webpage he was looking for.

‘This pretends to be conservationist,’ he said, ‘but that’s bullshit. It’s really a manual on how to poison plants. The thing is, these people we’re dealing with are following its prescriptions precisely-where to drill, what to use. It’s not a one-off operation, you understand. Takes time and this site spells out the right intervals.’

He was scrolling down as he spoke, too quickly for me to follow, but I could see where he was heading.

‘I’m beginning to get the drift,’ I said. ‘You know when the last holes were drilled so you know when they’ll be at it again.’

He spun around in his chair with his drink in hand. We clinked glasses.

‘Got it in one,’ he said.

According to Ivens’s calculations, the attack on the trees would take place in two or three days. I thanked Ivens, reluctantly refused another souped-up vodka and tonic and left.

Two or three days gave me time to recruit Hank Bachelor to help me do the job and to hire some equipment that would film the action in the dark. Naturally, Ivens couldn’t tell me whether the poisoners would do their thing late at night or in the early hours. It was mid-June, pretty cold at night, and it wasn’t likely that there’d be anyone around after dark. It looked as though Hank and I would have to stake out the place from about eight o’clock to a bit before dawn.

‘Jesus,’ Hank said when I told him. ‘I came to this country to be warm. Now you’re talking about down jackets, gloves and earmuffs.’

‘You came here because you couldn’t bear to live in the same country as George Bush.’

‘That’s true, but I wasn’t figuring to freeze my butt camping out.’

‘All good experience. I once spent a night in a car with no blanket halfway up Mount Kosciuszko.’

‘You better lay on the coffee and bourbon.’

On the first of the favoured nights we took up our positions, checked our equipment and waited. And waited. We worked our way through two thermoses of coffee and a good bit of Jack Daniels. It was dark and cold and a bit creepy with things rustling in the trees and the scrub. Nothing happened.

We arrived a bit after eight the following night to find what turned out to be four men in two teams. One pair spread out just inside the patch of scrub. Hank’s eyes are sharper than mine; he spotted them first and pulled me down.

‘Two guys up ahead,’ he whispered, ‘and I can see two more-one on the left and one on the right.’

‘What re they doing?’

‘Watching.’

‘Think they’ve seen us?’

‘Can’t tell, but they’ve got weapons. Baseball bats, maybe.’

‘What about down by the trees?’

‘Could be a faint light showing, not sure. What d’we do, Cliff? Call the cops?’

‘They’ll be gone before the police could get here.’

‘Wait up,’ Hank said. ‘I can hear something.’

Oh to be that young. His ears picked up the soft hum of a drill. He demonstrated the action.

‘Shit,’ I said, which wasn’t much help.

After a couple of minutes a voice cut through the night loud and clear: ‘Keep your distance and you won’t get hurt.’

Hank poked his head up. ‘They’re in a group heading off towards the road up thataway. Think I see four. Taking their time. Reckon we should follow?’

I stood, easing stiff muscles and joints. ‘They’ll split up. No point.’

For what it was worth, Hank filmed the departure of the men. Not my finest hour.

The hardest part was telling Young and Ivens.

‘That’s bad, Cliff,’ Ivens said. ‘They’ll only need another couple of treatments and the next one’s not due for a month or so.’