Peter Corris - The Undertow

More cognac went down and I had some myself. Good stuff.

'I've had an empty life since coming back from Italy. I hate it here and only stayed for William's sake. If we'd remained in Italy he would have had to do military service and who knows what might have happened to him? And after all that, and trying to be a good mother, everything fell apart. I needed someone. Do you understand?'

I did, but I didn't entirely believe her. She was capable of being more than just economical with the truth, she could adjust it to suit her needs and probably believed the adjustment was the reality. Behind that beautiful face was a disturbed psyche. I was sure she'd manipulated William from the cradle on. She had the knack, as shown by the kind of treatment she was getting in this house. I gave her no more than a semi-encouraging nod.

'And Frank didn't want me, of course. Why would he? He had a wife and a child, people he loved. And he handed the problem on to you. And now I…'

She would always circle back to herself from whatever point she started. She stopped speaking, took another belt of the cognac and then the thought got to her, through the protective shield of her self-concern.

'My God,' she said, 'you don't think William is involved with Matthew Sawtell?'

She was one of those people who go easy on themselves and blame others. I didn't spare her. 'Why not?' I said.

'He's a murderer.'

'Yes, and if all this speculation's right, he's already killed a man just recently.'

'Who?'

'The man who shot you and bashed me.'

Her hand trembled as she put the glass down on the tiles. 'I didn't know what I was doing.' 'That's right,' I said, 'you didn't.'

Big Bruno tried to block me on my way out but I was moving quickly; I caught him by surprise and pushed him aside.

'Look after her,' I said. 'She seems to be upset.'

Outside it was dark with a chill wind getting up. I sat in the car grateful for its warmth and tried to think about what to do next. There were things to tell Frank but nothing he'd want to hear. I thought about how matters had fallen into place for him-Hilde, Peter, his grandchildren on the way. Leave him in peace, I thought. Against that, if it was really Sawtell we were up against, and he went feral, that peace could be shattered. I couldn't decide. Army strategy seemed like the best bet-when in doubt, do a recce.

I keep the necessities for operational survival-toothbrush, razor, soap, towel, a half-bottle of whisky and two plastic containers, one full of water, the other to piss in-in the car. The downside of my arrangement with Lily is the frequent lonely nights, the upside is not having to check in.

I worked my way south-west, picked up the freeway and followed it down as it skirted towns like Yerrinbool and Mittagong. Time was when you had to go through them and country driving was like driving in the country. Now it's set the cruise control and get there, not that the Falcon has cruise control. I turned on the radio to catch the news.

Just in case Bush had pressed the button and this was all a waste of time.

As I drove I wondered whether I still had a client. Catherine Heysen had bared her soul. More than anything else she'd been man-hunting. I had to assume she still cared for her son but, given her egocentricity, that was a slender thread and my rudeness to her might have been enough to snap it. Possibly, but probably not. As for Frank, whose money I still hadn't worked through, he'd be pissed off at this independent action. But I could always mend bridges with him. That led to the thought that my objective here, for both parties, was to get William Heysen clear of the shit.

It was after 9 pm when I reached Bowral but the town hadn't closed down. Several pubs were busy and there were restaurants doing fair to good business along the main street. The days when all you'd find in a town like this was a Greek cafe, maybe a Chinese, were long gone. Good thing.

I was low on petrol and energy and I pulled in at a servo with a fast food outfall, as Andrew Denton had once styled them. I topped up, bought a street map of the town, coffee, and the least toxic-looking sandwich I could see in the display case. I sat in the far corner of the sparsely populated eating area, concealed the action behind the map, and spiked the coffee with cut-price scotch. Maybe it was just my hunger, or the alcohol lift or my hyped-up state, but the sandwich tasted surprisingly good and I bought another.

No problem locating Shetland Street; it ran off the main drag, not far from where I was. A short cul-de-sac. I wouldn't have expected William to locate himself in the foothills. I ate the second sandwich, drank the coffee and speculated about the town. All the signs were that it was keeping pace with the times: the restaurants and cafes, the craft shops-all with advertised websites-bricked footpaths and judiciously spaced and nicely staked trees. It undoubtedly had computer service companies and broadband. Many of the houses I'd seen on the way in had sprouted pay-TV satellite dishes. A good place to set up William's probably dodgy operation-good communications, close enough, but not too close rent-wise to Sydney and Canberra. A good place for 'Mad Matt' Sawtell to ply whatever trade he was pursuing?

The payphone in the service station cafe had a phone book and I looked up William. No listing. Without any particular plan in mind, I drove to Shetland Street. William's flat was in a new and pretty up-market block above a collection of four shops. The street was well lit and I could see that the complex had high security-an electronically controlled gate to get to the parking area and something similar at the foot entrance.

I got out of the car and crossed the street for a closer inspection. There were four apartments. You had to buzz to get past the gate and there were no names posted. I buzzed all four: two didn't answer and the two that responded did so with female voices. A girlfriend? Didn't seem likely. Neither voice sounded young. Presumably our boy was out somewhere. Well, I could wait.

I took a look at the shops: a Vietnamese bakery, an accountant, a hair and beauty pit stop, and a travel agency-Speciality Travel. A sign in the smoked glass window read: 'passport photographs, visas arranged, online bookings, video conferencing'. No way to be sure, but it looked as if William could be cutting down the time and distance between home and work.

I made a mental note of Speciality Travel's phone number and webpage address and went back to the car to jot them down. I was settled with notebook and pen in hand when I felt the cold bite of metal at the base of my skull.

'Drop the stuff in your hands and put them on the wheel. High up-five to one.'

The instruction came with a sharp jab and then an easing of the pressure. Someone who knew what he was doing.

I dropped the pen and notebook and did as I'd been told. I glanced at the rear vision mirror but it had been moved so that it showed nothing immediately behind me. A true professional.

'You don't have to look, you just have to listen,' the voice said. 'This is a sawn-off pump action shotgun with a heavy load. If you don't do what I say, exactly what I say, your head disappears.'

The sweat broke out immediately-on my body, on my face, on my hands-the voice and the threat had that much conviction. My throat was suddenly too dry to let me speak. I coughed and cleared it.

'Sawtell?'

Another quick jab and then something was hanging from my right ear.

'Plastic restraint,' he said. 'Right hand up and fasten it to your right wrist and the steering wheel.'

'I might need two hands for that.'

'Use them while you've got them.'

His calm was unnerving. I could only just hear him breathing, nothing heavy or out of rhythm. I adjusted the restraint, but left the clasp loose.