Peter Corris - Man In The Shadows

He arranged them on the table. I glanced at the seven faces quickly and then examined each in turn closely. I held up the third. Greenway nodded.

‘Dr Bruce Krey. He fits physically. Bald, see. No moustache but look at his shoulders. And his personal file’s a beauty. He’s had a fair bit of treatment over the years. Boy, does he have problems. I copied a fair bit of his file, didn’t bother with the others. Hardy?’

I was scarcely listening. The face was that of the doctor who’d examined me as I was regaining consciousness at the hospital on day one. His bald head had been covered then by some kind of cap. I’d misheard his name as ‘Grey’.

Greenway was looking pleased with himself. ‘Here’s the trump card. Shit, where is it?’ He shuffled the papers frantically.

‘Closin’ time,’ the girl called.

‘Christ, I can’t find it!’

I stood and collected the papers. ‘Take it easy. It’ll be there. This kid’s shagged, she wants to knock off.’ I left two dollars under the chicken tray and the girl gave me a smile as we went out the door. In the car I used a torch to help Greenway locate what he wanted. A single photocopy sheet.

‘It was on the boss’s desk,’ he said. ‘Look. Krey resigned today.’

Krey’s address was given in his file-25 Seventh Street, Jannali. I checked the directory, started the car and headed back up the Princes Highway. Greenway didn’t speak and I was happy to be left with my own thoughts. The intelligence that Krey was our man posed a lot of questions. ‘Dr K.’ was one of Annie’s good guys-he’d helped her get out of Southwood. So why was he an apparent instrument of her death? And why had he hired Greenway to do something that made no sense, especially when he was on the spot in the hospital himself? Just knowing Krey was a source of trouble took us no closer to knowing what the real trouble was and what had killed Annie.

Greenway coughed. ‘I don’t want to look nerdish or anything, but isn’t it something for the police?’

I concentrated on not missing the turn-off. My eye was still watering and I dabbed at it. ‘How would you like to explain what we did at the hospital?’

‘We’re investigating a crime, a series of crimes.’

‘What crimes?’

‘Murder for one and… ‘

‘Accidental death.’

‘Assault.’

‘On who?’

‘Me.’

I laughed. ‘You’re a bisexual out-of-work actor playing at being a detective. You’ve never even met your client. You’ve got no protection. Are you bonded?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Insured against damage you might cause, losses that might be sustained through your actions.’

‘No.’

‘I’m told this hospital has million dollar lawyers, the kind that own racehorses. You’d be so up to your balls in writs you’d forget what this was all about.’

He rubbed his hand across his face. ‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘You’re right. What is it all about, anyway?’

I made the turn. ‘We’ll go and ask Dr Krey. Let’s hope he’s home.’

The road into Jannali wound around the natural features of the landscape. There seemed to be a lot of roadworks going on devoted to changing those features. The suburb was quiet, like a country town all closed down for the night. I drove through unfamiliar streets with big houses contending for the high ground to the down-market section where the planners seemd to have run out of names. I wondered what it would be like to have as your address No. 1 First Street, or No. 2 Second Street for that matter. Seventh Street was undistinguishable from the others-widely spaced fibro bungalows on standard sized blocks. It was short and dark; several of the street lights were out of commission.

‘Not much for a doctor,’ Greenway said. ‘Looks like the sort of place they dump defectors in-where nothing happens and nobody goes.’

He was right; the street wore an air of uniformity and dullness that didn’t seem to fit with the personality of Dr Krey as I remembered him. I recalled the vein bulging in his forehead and the sense of pressure building up in him like an overheated boiler. I imagined him living in a penthouse or a slum, not low-rent suburbia. I drove slowly past the house; no lights were showing but the tail end of a big white car protruded from the driveway on to the wide grassy strip-the street had no footpath.

Greenway leaned across me and squinted into the gloom. ‘Could be a Volvo.’

‘It is.’ I drove on to the end of the street and parked. Most of the houses had garages or carports but there were a few cars on the grass strip-kids’ bombs mostly but a few sedate sedans like mine.

I dabbed at my eye, found a torch in the tool bag and got out of the car. ‘You wait here.’

‘No!’

‘Shut up! D’you want people calling the cops? This is a nervous neighbourhood. You have to stay here to guard the documents and to give me a warning if anyone comes. Two honks, okay?’

‘Bullshit, no one’ll come.’

‘Just do as I say.’

I closed the car door quietly and walked along the grass. Although my footsteps were silent a few dogs growled in the backyards and some lights indicated late night movie watchers but I had the street to myself. I examined the car at No. 20. The Volvo was heavily laden with boxes, bundles and cases. Dr Krey was planning a trip. I moved cautiously towards the house. I could see now that there was a light at the back. I went into the garage and used my torch to locate its back door. This opened on to a bare patch with a trellis gate through to the backyard. No dog.

The house was quiet and I had a feeling that it was empty, the way you get a feeling after a few rings that no one is going to answer the phone. I’ve had the feeling often; sometimes I’ve been right and sometimes wrong. I had it once and walked in on three dead bodies. I tried the back door and it opened easily and quietly. That took me into a porch; the door to the kitchen was open. One light burned and the stove was warm. There was an oil heater with a red light glowing in the dark living room. I looked quickly into the two bedrooms, using the torch. Both empty and more or less stripped. One had been used as a study but all that was left were some newspapers. I stood in the front room smelling loneliness, frustration and fear. I moved the torch beam around carefully and saw something on the ledge above the built-in electric fire. I touched it and felt hard bristles and a soft backing-a false moustache.

Two honks sounded from the street. I switched off the torch and went to the window. Through the gap beside the blind I saw a burly man approach the house. He rested his hand proprietorially on the Volvo as he eased past it. Krey. He walked towards the front of the house. I took the. 38 from my belt and held it at my side. I heard Krey’s footsteps on the path.

Two honks again, longer this time and louder. More company.

I couldn’t see Krey now, he was too close to the house, but I saw his visitor-he wasn’t wearing his uniform whites anymore but, even in the badly lit street, I couldn’t mistake him-Pope, the rabbit killer. He seemed not to notice the car horn; he stood behind the Volvo, lifted his arm and levelled a pistol at Krey’s back.

I whipped up the blind and smashed the window. I yelled something and brought my gun out. Pope swore and fired. The bullet whanged into the door. I stuck my head out trying to get a better look and saw Krey crouched behind a bush near the front door. Pope’s attention was divided between his target and me.

‘Pope!’ I pointed the. 38 at him. ‘Drop the gun.’

Pope hesitated. There were two sharp reports; the windscreen of the Volvo shattered and Pope screamed and reeled back. His gun flew in the air and he collapsed in a heap. Krey remained in a crouch; he held Greenway’s short-barrelled Nomad, still pointing it at the car.