Peter Corris - The Coast Road

Pumped up, I dragged him behind the pillar and held him from behind with his right arm up behind his back. He was young, heavily muscled and strong. He resisted as much as he could but he was winded and hurting in too many places.

‘Give it up,’ I said close to his ear.

‘Fuck you.’

I wrenched the arm and dislocated his shoulder. ‘Want to try for the other one?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, who put you on to me with the shotgun?’

‘Fuck you.’

I increased the pressure. ‘What was that?’

‘You’d better do the other arm,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘because if I tell you anything I’m dead anyway.’

‘Can’t argue with that.’ Keeping the good arm tightly locked, I reached inside his jacket and pulled out his wallet. His driver’s licence identified him as Matthew Lonsdale with an address in Wollongong. I unshipped my mobile and dialled a number.

‘I want to leave a message for Detective Inspector Farrow.’

‘Can I have your name, sir?’

‘No. Tell Farrow he should look for a man named Matthew Lonsdale in connection with the murder of Adam MacPherson.’ I read Lonsdale’s address off his licence. ‘Farrow should go to that address now and he might find a sawn-off shotgun-’

Lonsdale wriggled frantically and I gave his battered arm a twist. ‘At present Lonsdale is in Sydney in the company of a woman named Wendy Jones who is staying at the Novotel on Darling Harbour.’

‘Sir, I request-’

‘Lie there!’

‘Sir?’

‘Not you.’

I gave Lonsdale’s knee a tap with my foot, moved away and spoke the description and registration number of Wendy’s BMW into the phone in a low voice. I told the call monitor where Lonsdale was at present and cut the connection.

Lonsdale rolled onto his back and looked up at me enquiringly, his face twisted in pain and fear. I rubbed behind my ear where his shotgun had broken the skin. I showed him the spot of blood on my finger.

‘Remember this morning? I’d say we were even, but you probably wouldn’t agree. ’Course, I didn’t have to wade through a shitty creek.’

He stared up at me, expecting a kick or worse, but I walked away.

My attack on Lonsdale might not have been the smartest move to make, but at least I’d learned something. Wendy Jones was certainly a player in whatever was going on in the Illawarra, but she wasn’t the major player. Her behaviour suggested that she was out for a good time in the here and now, not a long-term planner. And Lonsdale’s statement that he’d be killed if he revealed who’d hired him to heavy me carried weight. Someone, somewhere, had a lot at stake.

But my actions had put me in the firing line for whoever that was and would also make me a target for the police. If I was going to be of any use to Elizabeth Farmer I had to stay clear of both those forces as best I could.

Smartest way was to get home, pack a bag and find a bolthole. I had a mobile phone and a laptop computer for communication and allies of a sort in Aaron De Witt and Tom Purcell, the undercover guy. If I’d jarred something loose in the Wollongong operation they might help me identify it.

I shot a quick look back at Lonsdale. He’d struggled to his feet and immediately collapsed. I took the escalator down two levels to where I’d parked the Falcon. On the way I cursed myself for not checking whether he had a mobile phone. If he had, his mate could be on the way. I roared up the ramps and got clear of the car park as fast as I could. I made the Glebe Island Bridge in good time and not too soon because I saw the blue lights and heard the sirens of cop cars heading for the casino.

I relaxed when I got clear of Darling Harbour and that was a mistake because I opted for the wrong lane and got caught in a traffic snarl on Victoria Road. A bus had hit a car and the traffic was banked up to the Rozelle turn off. Like a few other drivers, I attempted to work my way around the jam. Too many with the same idea. The traffic thickened and almost stopped. Still some movement, but so slow.

By the time I got back on track I’d lost almost half an hour and was starting to wonder how long the cops and the Wollongong interest would take to track me home. I had no choice but to get there. I needed the equipment, including the.38. I approached carefully, taking the lane behind my street first and then circling round to make a pass in front of my house. Nothing untoward. I came around again and parked a few metres away from my usual spot, which happened to be empty.

Most of the alcohol and adrenalin had drained away by this time and I was feeling edgy but under control. I left the car unlocked and strode towards the front gate, pushed it open and surged to the front door. My foot caught on something and I fell, only saving myself by grabbing at what had tripped me.

‘Cliff, oh, Cliff, you must help me.’

Marisha Karatsky and I clutched each other, fighting for balance. She’d been sitting on the step and I’d blundered into her in the dark.

‘Marisha, what the hell…?’

‘Don’t be angry. I can explain everything. But you must help me. He’s going to take her away.’

She was clinging to me with a strength I wouldn’t have expected. She wore dark clothes, helping to explain why I hadn’t seen her. I wasn’t as much in control as I’d thought-coming down, but still in a heightened state of alertness and apprehension after what had happened at the casino, and the smell and feel of her confused me. I found myself holding her, drawing her close to me.

‘Oh, Cliff…’

I wanted to forget all about runaway teenagers, and Swedish pimps and cops and men with shotguns, and take her inside and carry her up the stairs. I fought the feeling down.

‘Marisha, it’s dangerous here. There’re things going on. I can’t explain. I have to grab some stuff and leave.’ There was no way she was going to allow it. She gripped my arm and her fingers bit hard. ‘Together. We go together and then you can help me.’

I didn’t have time to argue. With her still holding on, I made it to the door, opened it and lurched inside.

‘This has to be quick,’ I said. ‘The police are probably on their way and other people who’ll try to kill me. If you stay with me you’re in the same kind of trouble.’

‘I’ll stay.’

‘Keep out of the doorway then. I’m collecting stuff. You can go through to the next room and the kitchen and grab anything you want. Two minutes!’

I went up the stairs three at a time and into the bedroom. I collected some clothes and stuffed them in an oversized tennis bag. From the spare room the laptop went into the bag along with the Smith amp; Wesson from a locked drawer. I went back down and grabbed things from the bathroom. Marisha was standing in the kitchen drinking wine from a tumbler.

‘We’ve gotta go,’ I said.

She shoved the corked bottle into her big shoulder bag and followed me to the door without a word. I left lights burning, activated the alarm and closed the door.

‘Have you got a car?’

She shook her head and I propelled her towards the Falcon. She slid into the seat. I slung my bag into the back and took off.

‘Where are we going, Cliff?’

‘I haven’t worked that out yet. Just going.’

‘The police are after you?’

‘Not exactly. Can you keep quiet for a bit, Marisha? I have to think.’

‘You tell me to be quiet when my daughter’s life is in danger. Is your other business more important than that?’

I realised that I was driving poorly and aimlessly, a sure way to be spotted by the cops who certainly had my registration number. My usual point of refuge, the Rooftop Motel in Glebe, had closed down. More redevelopment. I thought about the University Motor Inn-quiet and secluded in a one-way street, which was why it had appealed to Sallie-Anne Huckstepp and her lovers in days gone by. Bad idea. The cops would canvas motels within a few kilometres of my house as a matter of routine.