Peter Corris: Aftershock

The media were not to be denied. TV crews, radio units and print persons arrived, drawn to the scene like kids to a schoolyard fight. Their behaviour wasn’t so different either. They jostled and shouted, abused the police who struggled to keep them back, and started filming and photographing everything in sight. The neighbours, mostly elderly women, had never received so much attention in their lives. They revelled in it, inviting the reporters in for cups of tea and talking non-stop.

Withers floundered. He tried shouts and threats of arrest, but arrest at a news point is a badge of honour for reporters these days, and they ignored him. He did manage to keep the cameras out of the backyard of number 88, but they were operating from Molly’s place-her yard and roof-so it didn’t make much difference. The youngster who’d been detailed to contact Glen came pushing through the throng, struggling to get Withers’ attention. He got mine first.

‘What’s up?’ I said.

He was red-faced, sweating and worried. He had to tell someone, but was I the right person to tell? He decided I was. ‘I can’t raise Sergeant Withers. Her radio’s emitting an alarm signal.’

‘What does that mean?’

Again, he looked doubtful about revealing professional things to a civilian. But Withers was in a shouting match with a TV cameraman and he had no choice. ‘An officer can activate an alarm signal that’ll be picked up when another unit tries to contact him. That’s what we’re getting.’

‘Can you home in on the signal?’

‘Yes, but I should talk to Inspector Withers…’

‘Look at him,’ I said. ‘He’s got his hands full. And I have to tell you this, Constable…?’

‘Drewe.’

‘Constable Drewe. You saw me shake hands with Assistant Commissioner Morton, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, but… ‘

‘He co-opted me to keep an eye on the Inspector because Senior Sergeant Withers is involved in this case and he was worried about her father’s objectivity. D’you follow me?’

‘I’m not sure.’

I pushed him back down the path. ‘Come on, Constable. Show some initiative. You can call in whatever other help you like, but the Inspector’s better out of this.’

‘I dunno…’

I showed him the holster. ‘Look, they gave me my gun back and all. We can reach Morton and he’ll confirm what I’m saying. But we have to be quick!’

Drewe’s dislike of Withers probably gave me the edge. He suddenly became all business, pushed past the people congregating outside in the street and beckoned me over to the squad car. He twiddled with knobs, tried calling Glen, and got a hum. ‘Get in,’ he said. ‘She isn’t far off.’

‘I know where she is,’ I slammed the door and ignored a few interested looks from reporters. ‘Sergei Costi’s house in Kahiba. Know it?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

He gunned the motor and took off quickly, forcing the interested reporters to jump out of the way. Constable Drewe was born to drive- he handled the car as if it was an extension of his body and he was connected to it with nerves and blood vessels. He drove very fast and I felt very safe. We went down Burwood Road, past the elaborate houses and Glen’s cottage and onto the stretch of road where the forest surrounds the few residences set on five-acre blocks. The hum got louder and Drewe pointed. A Honda Civic with police markings stood under a tree by the side of the dirt track that led off the main road towards the entrance to the Costi house.

Taking my second look at it, Sergei Costi’s house made those of Rory Coleman and Antonio Fanfani look cheap. There was something solid about it, as if it was rooted to the earth and all the new, fast money that might float around wouldn’t buy a brick of it. Except, of course, that it was fairly new and no doubt fairly fast money that had bought it.

Big pine trees grew close to the house on the south side and the ocean was visible away to the west. The sky had cleared completely and the house was bathed in sunshine. From this angle, I could see a swimming pool and a tennis court. There were two cars drawn up on the wide, bricked driveway. The only incongruous thing was the big, black motor bike parked contemptuously in the middle of the drive, blocking both cars.

Drewe went across to the Honda and peered inside. ‘It’s her car. What d’we do now?’

The big house looked unnaturally quiet and still. Why wasn’t anyone playing tennis or swimming? Where was the chauffeur and the under-gardener? ‘Try and get in touch with Morton,’ I said. ‘I don’t like the feel of this.’

Drewe got busy on the radio. I could hear the squawks and buzzes and the sound of agitated exchanges. I stood beside the car, leaning on the opened passenger door, and watched the house. Nothing moved. Then I heard Drewe. ‘Mr Hardy, I’ve got through to the Assistant Commissioner. He’s telling us to get…’

A sharp crack, like the sound of stockwhip, and the windscreen of the police car exploded. Drewe yelled as he was showered with glass. The bullet had missed my head by a few centimetres and I nearly dislocated every joint in my body getting down and under cover behind the door. ‘Drewe! You okay?’

‘Yeah. Cut a bit. Blood everywhere, but I think it’s just nicks. Shit!’

He was crouched low, half in and half out of the car. The radio buzzed angrily and he gave his call sign and reported that he’d been fired on. ‘Hunter, Victor, Bravo. Superficial wounds,’ he said. ‘Awaiting instructions, over’

“What’s happening?’ I said.

He waved me silent and listened. ‘Roger, out.’ He put the handset back on its cradle. A red light blinked angrily. ‘Reinforcements coming. Commissioner Morton’ll be here.’

‘But what’s going on?’

‘Officer down,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Withers. That’s all I know. I’m only a fucking constable, Mr Hardy. Do you really think they’d tell me?’

‘What about Inspector Withers?’

‘If he shows up I’m instructed to tell him to leave the area, on Commissioner Morton’s authority. Fat fucking chance. I just hope Morton gets here first. We’re supposed to withdraw now. Come on.’

‘I’m staying here. I’ve got an idea where that shot came from. You should go and get those cuts looked at.’

‘Fuck you,’ he said. He edged clear of the door and worked his way towards the back of the car. There was another whipping, slapping sound and the car shook.

‘Drewe?’

‘I’m all right. If he hits the petrol tank…’

‘Hundred to one against. I’ve spotted him, I’m pretty sure. How d’you work this radio?’

‘Button on the left of the handpiece- depress it to talk, and lift it to receive. The unit’s…’

‘Hunter, Victor, Bravo, I know.’

There was a note of panic in his voice now. ‘I’ve got blood in my eyes. I can’t see!’

‘Hold on, son,’ I said, ‘they’ll be here in a minute. You’ve done fine and I’ll say so.’

He laughed. Hysteria coming, I thought. Then I heard the sound of car tyres on the dirt. Six police cars rolled to a stop on the track. They were shielded from the house by trees but anyone really looking could spot them. I hoped Drewe didn’t try to make a break for them-he could get himself shot and draw attention to the cars at the same time. The radio buzzed and I reached over and grabbed it.

‘Hunter, Victor, Bravo, this is Hunter Victor King. Are you receiving?’

I pressed the button and said, ‘This is Hardy, Mr Morton and I’m not going to go through all that rigmarole. I can hear you. Constable Drewe and I have been under fire from the house. Drewe has some superficial cuts. Now, what can you tell me?’

‘A lot,’ Morton said. ‘Too bloody much. Have you tried to get away from your present position?’