Garry Disher - Cross Kill

Anything for a bit of peace. Napper hunted around in her fridge, found a couple of the Cascade lagers she liked, and settled in her recliner with the remote control in his lap.

First up on Channel Seven was the death of Clare Ng, aged ten, killed by a car bomb in Richmond earlier that day. At first attributed to a petrol or gas leak, police now believed that a device had been planted in the boot of the Ng family’s late model Mercedes, parked in an alley behind the restaurant owned by her father, a prominent local businessman tipped to be the next mayor of Richmond. According to a police spokesperson, Clare may have activated the bomb when she opened the boot of the car.

There was more. The outgoing mayor was outraged. Clare was well liked at school. The family was popular. Police hadn’t ruled out elements in the Vietnamese community.

What was she doing opening the boot? Napper wondered. He pictured the lid flying up, smacking her in the face. Then he pictured it happening to his own daughter, and the beer and the Panadol and the Fanta began to churn and heave in his stomach. He put his head in his hands, rocked a little.

The sport and the weather passed, then canned laughter and ads for things that made no sense to Napper. He went to the kitchen, poured away his beer, washed Tina’s dishes for her. He microwaved a TV dinner from her freezer, spooned Nescafe into a mug of water, microwaved that. The night ahead was long and he needed a clear head.

It was 8.10 when Napper got to the station. The bombing had the place stirred up, the boss saying next time it could be on their patch, so watch it, keep your eyes and ears open.

At twenty past eight a WPC came by his desk. ‘You all right, sir?’

‘What do you mean, am I all right?’

She shrugged. ‘You look a bit rough around the edges, that’s all. By the way, someone’s been trying to ring you.’

‘Who?’

‘Won’t give his name. Says he’ll keep trying.’

Malan.

Napper left the station and went to a pay phone. ‘Listen, never call me at work.’

‘You fucked up,’ Malan said.

‘How was I to know the kid would open the boot?’

‘Her tennis racquet was in there,’ Malan said. ‘Why did you make the charge so big? Why didn’t you put it somewhere else on the car? They say it blew the back of the car off.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘Counterproductive,’ Malan said. ‘Eddie Ng will get the sympathy vote now. Instead of throwing doubts and fears into him, he’ll ride high on this. He’s got people rallying around him already.’

Napper didn’t have time to listen to this crap. During the past hour or so he’d managed to get his nerve back. He’d put the death of the child into perspective, the image of the metal smacking her down. ‘You can’t be sure of that,’ he said. ‘Look, you contracted me to do a job and I did it. I’ll be around later to pick up the other half.’

‘You must be joking. If you come anywhere near me again I’ll talk. Even if it means I have to go down with you.’

That left Napper standing on Swan Street with a dead phone against his ear.

The days were getting longer in Sydney and the kiosk near the steps leading down to the underground station sold plants Wyatt had never seen before, heaped in buckets on the footpath. Little flags said proteas, golden torch, gedisha. He recognised clumps of frosty grey gum tree leaves among them. Some tiny orange, lemon and umbrella trees in terracotta pots lined the wall of the kiosk, a wooden structure resembling an Alpine hut. On shelves inside the kiosk were vials of aroma therapy oils, blue and green Mexican glass vases, crystals, terracotta ducks. Since everyone was buying roses, carnations and freesias that Saturday afternoon, the rest of it seemed to be a waste of time.

A white Bentley pulled into the kerb. The car belonged to Kepler and Wyatt had been expecting it. Kepler himself wasn’t in the car. According to Jardine, the driver was just a driver but the man in the back was Towns, head of operations for Kepler. Every Saturday afternoon the two men stopped for roses, collected their boss at the Darling Harbour penthouse where he made deals and kept a mistress, and took him home. Kepler’s story to his wife was that he’d spent the afternoon at the races. Presumably the roses eased his conscience.

The Bentley had tinted glass windows. Wyatt watched the kerb-side rear door swing open. From his vantage point behind a wire rack of postcards next to a newspaper stand he had a clear view of the car’s interior. The chauffeur wore a dark coat and a peaked cap, that’s all he could tell. Towns wore a dark suit and highly polished black shoes. There was no one with him in the back of the car. Towns got out, stretched to ease a kink in his back, then pushed through pedestrians to the flower kiosk. The motor was running in the Bentley. The back door hung partly open.

Wyatt had considered getting into the car and waiting for Towns, but that had too many holes in it. Towns might see him there and back away. The driver might get brave and try leaning on the horn or roaring off down the street. Instead, Wyatt waited while Towns bought the roses and returned to the car with them. A man’s defenses are down when he’s got roses in his hands and he’s bending to go through a car door. Wyatt waited. When Towns was back at the car, getting in flowers first, head down, waist bent, Wyatt moved. Wyatt himself had a suit on. The pedestrians might have thought him impatient, the way he shoved in after the first man, closing the door behind him, but he didn’t look entirely out of place and besides, the rich had their own rules.

The driver wore a cap and dark glasses. He was a mouth breather and had his head buried in the sports section of the Daily Telegraph. At the rocking of the car he folded the paper and put it aside. ‘All set, boss?’

Then he saw Wyatt. His hand went into his jacket and he tried to turn around. Wyatt let him see the.38. The windows were tinted: Wyatt could have waved a machine gun around if he’d wanted to. ‘Don’t,’ he warned. ‘All I want to do is talk. All you have to do is drive around the block a few times.’

‘Boss?’

Towns twisted his mouth. ‘Do as he says.’

‘Guns, first,’ Wyatt said.

He pocketed both guns and the Bentley rode silently into the traffic. The interior smelt of leather, aftershave, aggression. Wyatt leaned back against the door. Towns was an amiable, scholarly, alert-looking man whose trade included murder. He said mildly, ‘Have you considered taking a train? At the bottom of the steps there.’

Wyatt looked at him flatly. His eyes didn’t stray.

‘I assume you’re the bastard knocking over our operations,’ Towns said finally. ‘What are you trying to prove?’

‘Let me give you two names from the recent past. Bauer and Letterman.’

Towns seemed tired suddenly. ‘Wyatt.’

Wyatt said, ‘You sent Bauer after me, I killed him. You sent Letterman after me, I killed him too.’

For the first time in months there was a twist of emotion in Wyatt’s voice. He heard it in himself and he welcomed it. He didn’t care that the old calmness was gone, the certainty he felt when he hijacked an armoured car or cleaned out a bank. This time he was after revenge, not profit. It was personal this time, and there was something cleansing about that. He was setting his will against a man who meant him harm. Emotion came into it. He couldn’t be neutral.

He nudged Towns viciously, the.38 bruising the thin man’s ribs. ‘I need to see Kepler.’

‘To kill him? We won’t let that happen. We’ll stop you, here or at his place. Take my word for it.’

‘I’m not interested in killing him. I want to talk. I want to make a deal.’