Garry Disher - Cross Kill

Wyatt watched youth and dog enter their yard together. Niall took the pitbull through the open-ended carport to the rear of the house. When Niall didn’t reappear, Wyatt guessed he’d gone in by the back door.

Wyatt had intended to leave the pub and cross the road then, but an empty tip-truck pulled up outside Rossiter’s, partly obscuring his view. The truck was rust-coloured, the tray sides massively dented. Wyatt wondered idly if the old holdup man had got himself a new job or if he was moving in different circles now, but a man he’d never seen before, thickset and wearing overalls, climbed out of the cab and made for the house next door to Rossiter’s.

Wyatt watched him through a gap between the truck and an old Hillman. Just as the man reached down to unlatch his front gate, Niall Rossiter reappeared on the footpath. He was carrying a crossbow, the bow pulled back tight. Wyatt could see the bolt sitting there. It was sharp and lethal-looking, and Niall Rossiter had the appearance of a man who wanted to let it loose on someone. Wyatt glanced around, saw that no one in the bar was paying any attention to him, and opened the pub window a crack.

‘I’ve fucking told you, park that heap of shit outside your own place.’

Niall Rossiter was waving the crossbow around as he said it. He aimed it at the front tyres of the truck. He swung around and aimed it at the driver.

‘How can I, Niall?’ the man said. He pointed to the Hillman on a lean in the gutter outside his house. ‘This thing’s parked here. Don’t know who owns it.’

‘I’ve fucking told you, don’t park outside our place.’

Then Niall paused. He prodded the crossbow against the truck driver’s chest. ‘In fact, don’t park here at all.’ He stepped back, waving his arm at the miserable street. ‘I mean, Jesus, it spoils the look of the place, let alone blocking the light.’

He wheeled around and disappeared. The man got into his truck and started it. Wyatt shut the window, closing off the belching exhaust smoke. The man compromised. He shunted back and forth, turned the truck around and parked it several car lengths away.

Wyatt waited, letting the street draw poverty and meanness around itself again, then ran lightly across the road and into the Rossiter place. He didn’t go to the front door. He edged between the Charger and the VW and came to a gate leading to the backyard, an island of cement with a Hills Hoist in the centre of it. Tracksuits, T-shirts, overalls and vast black bras and pants were pegged to it. They had been there a while. They flapped stiffly like cardboard cutouts. A bicycle with trainer wheels lay on its side at the base of the Hills Hoist.

The pitbull lived in a lean-to kennel against the side wall of a poky granny flat at the far end of the yard. A sad-looking wattle dropped small, scaly leaves onto it. Two grimy bowls were nearby, both empty. The pitbull stiffened as Wyatt came through the gate. It came at him fast, low and silent. The back wall of the main house consisted of sagging masonite with two louvred windows and a barred screen door in it. Wyatt slipped inside and slammed the screen door. The pitbull hit the door, its jaws lunging at Wyatt through the torn flywire, its shoulders arrested by the bars. ‘The quick and the dead,’ Wyatt told it.

He found himself in a gloomy region of dustballs, mould and feathery webs. Toys and rags were scattered on the cement floor. There were three doors. All were open. The first led to a bathroom with a dripping shower, the second to a laundry dominated by an expensive washing machine. Wyatt stopped at the third doorway and looked in.

It was a large kitchen. Everything was on a large scale and none of it was cheap-the table, the built-in cupboards, the gleaming refrigerator, freezer, dishwasher, microwave oven and gas range.

The women were large. Rossiter’s wife, Eileen, was in her fifties but looked younger. There were no lines on her round face. Her lips were very red, her chopped short hair had no grey in it, the flesh on her robust bones hadn’t started to sag yet. But there was a lot of it, concealed under a flower-patterned sack-like dress. She was the healthiest, most unlikely looking grandmother Wyatt had ever seen. She watched him from the chair at the head of the table and didn’t flicker an eyelid.

Next to her was the daughter, Leanne. She’d got married at seventeen and the expression on her face said she hadn’t been ready for the kids that came with it. She was short and dark, and looked cheap and sullen. On her, the fat looked grease-fed and unhealthy. She had black hair on the crown of her head, shaved to a stubble above each ear. Her singlet top was holed and grimy. A couple of dozen thin silver bangles clinked together on one thick arm. She moved suddenly, striking out blindly, clipping the ear of a grubby child who’d been whining for a biscuit. The child started screaming. Two other children, under the table, joined in. Then Leanne saw Wyatt in the doorway and her jaw dropped open.

The men saw him too. Niall had a beer can raised to his mouth. He put the can back on the table. There were several other cans there, together with bowls of potato crisps, salted nuts and biscuits. This was morning tea. Leanne was visiting with the grandchildren, so they’d got out the nibbles.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Niall said.

Wyatt ignored him. He nodded at the other man carefully. ‘Ross,’ he said.

Rossiter was ten years older than his wife but looked twenty years older. He was jockey-sized, with the sunken chest, narrow face and knobbly features that his son had inherited, but not Niall’s viciousness. He’d cut himself shaving. He didn’t seem to know whether or not he should be pleased to see Wyatt in his kitchen doorway. He grew wary and still. ‘Wyatt,’ he said.

The response was immediate. Niall stood up, looking punchy, pushing back his chair. The expression on Eileen’s face went from neutral to hard and she said, ‘Well, well,’ softly. Leanne looked confused. Wyatt watched them carefully. Rossiter had both hands on the edge of the table. He wasn’t a hard man, or bad or unpredictable, but that didn’t make him a safe bet. The hard one was Eileen, the bad and unpredictable one was Niall, Leanne was nothing.

There was only one way to get through to these people. Wyatt held up his hand placatingly, said, ‘Take it easy,’ and took an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket. It contained the few thousand dollars he’d been able to make from small heists up and down the eastern seaboard in the past ten months. He counted out a thousand dollars. He sensed tension and anticipation in the room. He put the money on the table and said, ‘Ross, I want to apologise.’

Niall looked at the money and then at Wyatt. ‘Apologise? Some guy comes along and knocks my old man around on account of you, and you want to apologise? I’ll give you apologise,’ and he started to move around the table.

Rossiter blocked him with his chair. ‘Keep your shirt on, son. I’m still alive. Hear him out.’

Niall had the face of a rodent and was driven by nameless grievances. He didn’t want to stop, so Wyatt pulled out his.38. Niall saw it. He backed up, said, ‘Hey,’ putting plenty of hurt in his voice, and sat down.

The others saw the gun too. Eileen continued to watch Wyatt across the table. Leanne slapped one of her children again and went back to staring in fascination at it. Rossiter shook his head wearily. ‘Cut it out, you lot. Wyatt’s a friend.’ He looked up at Wyatt. ‘Put the gun away, pal, you won’t need it here.’ When the tension ebbed he said, ‘I hear you shot him.’

Wyatt nodded.

A look of drowsy appreciation settled on Leanne’s face. ‘You shot Sugarfoot?’