Peter Corris - Saving Billie

The ambulance didn't use its siren on the way to the hospital, a sign that Billie wasn't at death's door. It took a while for me to find a parking place and then to locate the admissions desk. I enquired about Ms Billie Marchant and was told she'd been admitted by Sister Mary Latekefu of the District Health Service. She was receiving treatment for malnutrition, dehydration and pneumonia and couldn't receive visitors until a doctor said so.

I moved away from the desk and a young woman who'd been standing nearby approached me. She was medium tall, slim, brown haired, olive skinned-Sharon without the dye job, a few shades darker and twenty years younger.

'Mr Hardy?'

'You'd be Sarah… Marchant?'

'Sarah Marchant-Wallambi. Didn't Mum tell you? My dad's a Koori.'

'Glad to meet you, Sarah. Did you hear all that about your Aunt Billie?'

She smiled as we moved away towards a set of plastic chairs. 'Yeah, except that she's Aunty Wilhelmina. That's her real name. I was just going to ask about her when you stepped in.'

'I'm finding out more about your family all the time,' I said. 'How much d'you know about what's going on?'

'Not much. I know she's a wild one and into drugs and all that. I met her once when I was a kid. That's when she told me her name. I thought she was great, but Mum didn't like to talk about her much.'

I bought us two coffees from the machine and we sat on the hard chairs they provide with arm rests so you can't stretch out on a few of them for a nap. She dropped her backpack to the floor and drank some coffee. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, sandals. She had a couple of rings in her ears but none in her face. 'Can you tell me what this's all about? I mean, suddenly Mum's in Sydney with a strange man and her car needs picking up and her sister's off to hoppy and you're here… like, this is so un-my mum.'

'It's a long story. Billie… Wilhelmina… she's a sort of witness in something pretty big to do with money and other stuff. I'm working for someone who needs to talk to her and can help her to pull out of this bad patch she's in. Your mother's on side more or less, if we can work out the details.'

'Wow. Is she in danger… Billie?'

'Not while she's here. Look, what you should do is tell them you're her niece and that her sister's on the way. Tell Sharon I'm going off to organise my client to see Billie when she's well enough. Okay?'

She nodded. I patted her shoulder. She gave me a look I'd seen before on the faces of wise children of women I'd got involved with. Is this guy a candidate? With the scars, the broken nose, the manners for the moment and the secrets? Probably not.

I gave Sarah the motel number and headed back there expecting a visit or at least a call from Steve Kooti to put me in the picture. I also wanted to think about how to play things with Lou Kramer. Her bull-at-a-gate style wasn't right for things as they stood, and I worried that negotiations between her and Sharon could easily break down. Still, I considered I wasn't doing too badly so far, with Billie found and secured and an ally or two on the side. I stopped for petrol and, as I hadn't eaten anything yet and felt I owed myself an indulgence, I had a cup of coffee and a sandwich at the servo.

I pulled in to the motel car park and hoped they weren't doing my room. Nothing more boring than kicking your heels while they cart out the empties. But the door was closed and there was no sign of the trolley. I went in and something about the weight of a Mack truck hit me on the back. My knees crumpled; a skyhook picked me up and dumped me on the bed. I fought for breath, waiting for the next assault, but nothing happened. With almost everything hurting, I wrenched myself around to see a man standing beside the bed. He was so big he blocked out most of the light from the window. He wore the kind of high buttoning single-breasted suit that footballers wear to the tribunal and their court hearings. I recognised him as the man I'd seen leaving the Liston house that morning. Had to be Yolande Potare.

He cracked his knuckles with a noise like the rattle of small arms fire. 'You're a nuisance,' he said, 'and I don't like you.'

'Doing my job.'

'Interfering with the Lord's work.'

'You reckon the Lord likes to see sick women wasting away to death, do you? She's where she belongs, Mr Potare. Let it be.'

'I will. But first I'm going to make you sorry you ever got born. Stand up.'

The bedside lamp was anchored, and the clock radio; the only weapon to hand was a pillow. I slung it at him as I stood, hoping to distract him long enough to pick up something solid or, better still, get through the door. He swatted it away, grabbed me by the shoulder and drew back his other arm to totally rearrange my face.

The door burst open and two men came in. They weren't as big as Yoli but one was big enough. He grabbed Yoli's arm and swung him off balance while the other guy kneed him in the crotch. Yoli released me, bellowed with pain and rage and bent double. The smaller man flashed something in a leather folder under Yoli's eyes.

'If you want to be up on assault charges, you can be,' he said.

His mate took a handful of Yoli's suit collar and pulled him towards the open door as Yoli was still fighting for breath. 'Or you can just piss off.'

Yoli staggered through as he was released and the door was kicked shut behind him. I sat down on the bed and massaged my shoulder.

'Police?'

The big man dusted his hands off, looking pleased with himself. 'No. My name's McGuinness and this is… well, never mind. We work for someone who's anxious to meet you.'

'Look, I'm glad you happened along. Don't quite see how but-'

'That can be explained. Just stay put.'

I took a closer look at him. McGuinness was big, fair, freckled and running to fat. His exertions had left him short of breath. His mate was more compact, possibly smarter, but not in charge. Both had something like an ex-army or ex-cop poise I didn't like the look of, but there was no point in arguing.

McGuinness opened the door and gestured invitingly. I heard a car door slam and footsteps approaching on the concrete path. Leather soles, confident tread. McGuinness held the door wide open and Barclay Greaves walked in.

Greaves, looking like John Cleese with a gut, sat in the room's only comfortable chair. He would. McGuin-ness's mate opened the fridge, poured a glass of water and handed it to me.

'How're you feeling, Mr Hardy?' Greaves said.

I drank some water. 'I'm okay, Mr Greaves.'

He glanced at McGuinness. 'Did you mention my name?'

McGuinness shook his head.

'No mystery,' I said. 'I saw you in the company of Louise Kramer the other night. Checked your car registration and Bob's your uncle. We sort of met at Jonas Clement's party, if you remember.'

'Yes, indeed. Well, I'm impressed. Wasn't that a bit above and beyond the call of duty? Keeping tabs on your own client?'

'Can't be too careful. I knew she wasn't giving me the full picture.'

'I'm not sure anyone knows what precisely that is. Louise is devious. That's all right, so am I, and you seem to have acquired some formidable enemies. I'm told Rhys

Thomas gave you a hard time, and that big chap certainly wasn't friendly.'

'True. Well, your blokes helped me out there. I suppose I should be grateful.'

He nodded. He was immaculate in his suit, muted striped shirt and silk tie. His colour was a few shades too high and he was carrying those extra kilos. One-on-one I didn't think he'd give me much trouble, but the presence of the other two tipped the balance.

'Yes,' Greaves said. 'That should put us on a good footing, wouldn't you say?'

'All depends on what you want.'

He looked uncomfortable in the surroundings. Cheap motel rooms weren't his milieu and I felt encouraged because they were mine. McGuinness and his mate were standing around awkwardly. I got off the bed, picked up the pillow I'd thrown at Yoli and pulled out the plastic chair from the tiny desk. I reversed it, sat with my elbows on the back rest and faced Greaves. A quick nod was all he needed to dismiss his minions. They left the room without looking at me.