Peter Corris: Aftershock

Morton issued instructions for the road to be closed and enquired about progress on bringing Mark Roper, Bruno Costi and a priest to the scene. Sergeant Crowther told him that everything was done that could be done. I could see Morton’s eyes drifting over the physiques of the dozen or so cops as he requested shields, bullet-proof vests and more weapons to be brought up.

Sergeant Crowther said, ‘Should we call the heavy squad, sir?’

Morton looked at him. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re right, I’m not. I’d rather try it myself than let those bloody cowboys loose. It’s brains that’ll get us out of this, Sergeant.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I’d been hanging around, listening, and keeping an eye on Ted Withers. A paramedic had arrived and said the wound was clean. The marksman asked him about the calibre of the bullet and the medic just stared at him. We were all operating on different wavelengths and I wondered how long Morton could hold it all together. He was doing a pretty good job, so far.

‘Hardy,’ he said, ‘you look as if you’re thinking. If you’ve got any bright ideas you might let me know.’

I shook my head. ‘I was working out something about the Costis. I think I’ve got it, not that it’s any help. Why’s the father at home?’

I asked to try to get a line on how Morton felt about Sergei Costi. Whether he regarded him like Ted Withers, as expendable. But he just grunted which told me nothing, ‘Semi-retired. Not too well.’

‘I’ve got a number I was given by an Italian down south in the same line of business as Costi. He’s the one whose daughter went missing. He said he had influence up here. He might have some ideas…’

‘If you’re thinking you can get him here to talk to Ronny the way you promised, forget it. This’ll all be over long before that.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’m just grasping at straws, like you.’

He shot me an evil look. ‘Go with Sergeant Dexter. He’s dropping in on the neighbours to tell them to keep their heads down. One of them’ll let you use the phone if you ask nicely.’

He was dismissing me from the scene of action and we both knew it. There was no point in resisting; I wasn’t going to personally attack the house with my. 38 in my fist and a handkerchief wrapped around my head. It was a waiting game and we both knew it.

‘He’s tense,’ the marksman said. ‘Give me another three inches, mate. C’mon, two inches!’

I heard Morton say ‘Wait,’ again as I went off to find Sergeant Dexter.

The Sergeant wasn’t happy with his assignment. He was a big-bellied cop, youngish for his rank but on the way to looking older. He didn’t like me for being a civilian but he liked to talk and it balanced out. As we walked along the track towards the first of the houses, he told me that we should rush the Costi place now.

‘He might kill everyone if we do that,’ I said.

‘Wouldn’t get them all. He will if we leave it much longer.’

‘Know him, do you?’

‘Ronny? Sure I know him. He’s as crazy as they come. I mean right across the board- bikes, booze, dope and religion.’

‘They’re getting a priest,’ I said.

Dexter kicked a stone with his highly polished boot. ‘Ronny’s crazy enough to shoot him.’

‘D’you know Sergeant Withers?’

‘Yeah. She’s all right. She can’t help having that bastard as her old man.’

We reached the first place, a mock French farmhouse, all sand-blasted brick and narrow windows. There was a small vineyard and orchard near the house with a lot of watering equipment. A four-wheel-drive stood outside. The owners, a nervous looking elderly couple wearing tailored overalls, stood on the front porch watching us as we approached.

‘The police at last. Thank god,’ the man said. ‘Can you please tell us what’s going on up there?’ He inclined his old, bald head in the direction of the Costi house.

Dexter told him, with a minimum of detail, and advised him and his wife to keep inside. He also said that some men might have to come through their property.

‘I don’t know about that,’ the woman said. “We’ve got some very delicate plants in here.’

‘We’ve got a wounded officer in the house,’ Dexter said, ‘and three other people in danger.’

‘Italians. Dreadful people,’ the woman said, ‘They shouldn’t be allowed…’

‘Where’s the phone?’ I snapped.

The man pointed and I went down the hall past the bowls of flowers on stands and the framed family pictures. I grabbed the phone and dug out the card with Fanfani’s number on it. Fanfani himself answered. I gave him a sketch of the situation, with the very briefest indication that Schmidt/Bach had committed more crimes than anyone had thought, and asked him if he had any ideas.

‘The priest…’

‘He’s on his way.’

‘I don’t know these people. Where are they from?’

‘I haven’t a clue, Mr Fanfani. I just thought you might have something useful to contribute.’

‘No. I could get a helicopter and…’

‘It’ll be finished by then. And I don’t think you’re going to be able to talk to the man who killed Werner Schmidt.’

‘You mean the police will kill him?’

‘No, Mr Fanfani. I don’t mean that at all.’ I rang off and hurried back to the front of the house. The old couple were still standing on the porch, looking up the hill towards the Costi house. I pushed past them.

‘Aren’t you going to pay for the call?’ the man whined.

‘No,’ I said, ‘and it was long distance, too.’

Dexter was out of sight when I got back to the road. I realised suddenly that I was tired and drained of physical and emotional energy. I sucked in deep breaths of the clean, country air and tried to pump myself up. I even pulled out the Smith amp; Wesson and checked its action. I did not feel better. I had a vision of Glen Withers lying on a white shagpile carpet with blood oozing from her and the young man I’d seen in the photograph at Mark Roper’s house-the dark, snake-like man with the hooded eyes- standing over her with a rifle. My city shoes were stirring up the dust. I coughed and felt useless as I trudged back up to where all the other useless men with guns were. I knew I’d solved a problem but the solution was about as useful as a condom to a eunuch.

Back at the siege the cast of characters had expanded. There were two ambulances and several more police cars. Uniformed cops were holding the press people back behind yellow plastic tapes at either end of the road. Tension was hanging like dust in the air. Everyone who could take his frustration out on someone else was doing it. Morton used me. “We can’t find Roper,’ he fumed, ‘and the priest’s at some old fart’s funeral.’

“Why don’t you round up a couple of Ronny’s bikie mates? Could be useful.’

Morton stared at me. ‘Bikies? Are you serious? “With all this shit going on you want to bring in bikies?’

I shrugged. ‘Just a suggestion. What does the sharpshooter say?’

‘He says he’s getting tired. I’m going to have to send someone in. We’ve got a volunteer.’

He pointed to where a tall, thin constable was changing into a blue overall, not unlike the one worn by Mark Roper. The bullet-proof vest he was wearing would make him look less thin and he didn’t look a lot like Roper anyway. I wondered what they were going to put on his head.

‘Commissioner.’ The policeman who knew how radios worked was beckoning urgently. Morton went across and I followed. It was only a matter of time before he told me to piss off.

‘He’s got a CB,’ the policeman said. ‘He’s sending. I can pick him up.’