Peter Corris - The Coast Road

‘No. Not somebody connected to the sticky side.’

‘So it’s your call. Your infallible judgement.’

‘That’s right, but I’m not too happy about it. The guy who processed the insurance claim, the one I spoke to, has suddenly gone on leave. The guy he put me on to and I didn’t speak to is dead. I’m not too keen on mentioning names.’

‘You don’t trust me?’

I looked at him, sitting in his grotty clothes with his unlaced boot, drinking brandy from a cup in a cheap motel. The look on his face told me he was seeing much the same picture. We both laughed.

‘Wendy’s in Sydney,’ he said. ‘I’m told she’s staying at the Novotel-Darling Harbour.’

121

‘She must’ve cleaned up her act. I’m told she was the original bikie moll.’

‘Yeah, she is that, but you can cover tatts and she’d scrub up pretty well if she wanted to.’

‘She ride her Harley?’

He shook his head and lifted his cup in an ironic salute. ‘BMW, bought today. I’ve been wondering about it, but these people can get very flush, very quickly. Of course, Wendy knows people. Probably got it cheap.’

‘But I’ve given you something to think about?’

He nodded. ‘Just what I needed.’

We kicked it around for a while longer over a little more of Jason’s brandy. After he left I reflected that Purcell was the first cop I could recall who didn’t tell me to keep my nose out of things. All he said was to be careful. But he was a different kind of cop.

If there’s anything lonelier than a cheap motel room in the suburbs at dead of night I don’t know of it. Maybe a solitary confinement cell at the Bay in the old days, but I hadn’t had the pleasure. I was a bit high on the brandy with nothing much in my stomach to process it, and from feeling that the contact with Purcell had been useful, but coming down fast. There was a chance I could learn something, directly or indirectly, from Wendy Jones to throw some light on Frederick Farmer’s death. Dr Elizabeth struck me as a stayer and she might want me to pursue the matter as far as I could. That is, into the sort of danger Farrow and Purcell had hinted at. Okay with me, in fact very okay. I’d long ago come to agree with Cyn and others after her that I could cope better with the dangerous than with the mundane. Dullness, boredom, alcohol would kill me quicker than bashings or bullets.

But, lying half drunk on a lumpy bed in a crummy motel under a low watt light, it was thoughts of Marisha Karatsky that were bringing me down.

In the morning, just before checkout time, I phoned

De Witt at the Mercury . ‘You survived it,’ he said.

‘No worries. Any luck on Matilda?’

‘Not really, but there’s one funny thing. I ran the name past a couple of people here and the social page woman said it rang a bell. She’s checking some of her back stories and columns.’

‘That is a bit strange. My understanding was that she never came near the Wombarra place. I’m surprised to learn she was ever down here at all.’

‘Well, let’s see if there’s anything to it. How did you get on with the bikies?’

I was concerned to protect all my sources of information, and it was getting tangled. Hard to remember who I’d told what. I said I had some leads to follow but nothing solid yet. He caught the hesitation and evasion.

‘We had a deal, remember? I hope you’re not backing out.’

‘The deal stands. You know one of the differences between your game and mine?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I’ve learned to have patience, lots of patience.’

I checked out, returned the Mitsubishi and carried my bag back to the parking station. I was accumulating a decent set of receipts for Dr Farmer. The morning was bright with a mild wind promising a spell of decent weather. I decided to get a small workout by climbing the four flights of stairs to my level rather than taking the lift. I remembered Bob Hawke saying he hated jogging and got exercise by walking briskly and swinging his heavy briefcase. Seemed to work for him.

The level was for overnight and longer parking and there was a scattering of cars. My plan was to get onto the highway as quickly as possible to minimise the chance of Barton’s boys checking me for bald tyres or defective wipers, both always a possibility. I unlocked the passenger door and slung the bag inside. I reached across to lift the button on the driver’s door and felt cold metal press hard behind my ear.

‘Don’t turn around, Hardy. Just take a deep breath.’

Despite myself, I did what the voice said.

‘That’s right. Now, feel this.’

The metal moved against my skin-sharp, round, wide.

‘Shottie?’ I said.

‘Right. Double sawn-off. You’re going to drive and I’m going to sit behind you with this somewhere around the base of your neck. Maybe not quite touching. Understand?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay. Driver’s side keeping your eyes down, reach over and open the back door. Don’t look around. Get in, start the car and head for the exit-slowly.’

‘Do I put my seatbelt on?’

The shotgun dug savagely into my neck. ‘What you do is drive and keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.’

I did what the voice said. The Falcon, after sitting cold for nearly twenty-four hours, was reluctant to start.

‘Am I allowed to give it some choke?’

He was behind me now with the back door closed. I couldn’t feel the gun, but that didn’t do anything to reduce the sweat running down my face and breaking out in other places.

‘Just get it started or everything stops for you right here.’

The engine coughed, caught, and I nursed it to a healthy purr. ‘I’ll have to get out to pay.’

‘It’s been taken care of,’ he said. ‘Drive!’

I snuck a quick look in the rear vision mirror and saw nothing-taped over. He knew his stuff. I drove down the ramps and the boom gate lifted and we were out on the road.

‘Straight ahead and don’t do any smart thinking. You’re dead in a second and I’m out and off and anyone in my way is collateral damage.’

I drove, obeying his directional instructions. What he said was probably true about being able to get clear and, in any case, it wouldn’t matter to me if he did or not. We were heading for the rough land surrounding the sewerage works. From my earlier reading of the map I recalled that it ran partly alongside the golf course. Sewerage plants are pretty much automated with not many workers around, and, unless it was a competition day, not too many golfers would be out. This guy would’ve checked on that. A shotgun had seen Adam MacPherson off, and here was one just centimetres from my spinal cord. The sweat was running off me now. The seatbelt hung loose over my shoulder- I wasn’t that dumb.

Traffic thinned down to nothing. His sharply barked directions were taking us along empty roads with cyclone fences and bits of industrial plant with no one about. It was the worst of places and the best of places. I made the decision: I swung the wheel and hit the kerb. The bump pulled the shotgun barrel away from my head giving me the time I needed. I hit the brake and threw myself against my bag and the passenger door. What the guy behind didn’t know was that the passenger door catch was buggered and would open at a touch. I went through the door with the bag ahead of me, clutching it to break my fall. It partly worked, but I hit hard and felt the wind go out of me as the car careened ahead, out of control.

I rolled and sucked in air. I unzipped the bag and groped for the.38 Smith amp; Wesson I’d brought along with other accessories. I found it with sweaty fingers and struggled to get my bearings. The Falcon had stalled with its nose buried deep in a stand of lantana. It was fifty metres away. The back door opened and he stepped out, clutching his chest. No seatbelt in the back-a nasty thump. He was a blur at that distance with the sweat running into my eyes. Big. Dark. Beard? Denim? He still had the sawn-off and he pointed it in my direction. Took a few steps.