Garry Disher - Kick Back

The traffic jerked onto Racecourse Road. At the entrance to the Housing Commission flats he turned in and parked the car, angling it for a clear run to the street.

He looked up at the looming towers. Human shapes dreamed in many of the windows, backlit by the blue light of television screens. Curtains were open. It was understandable: no-one to see in, and a perfect view across parkland to the fingering skyscrapers of the city.

As he stood there looking up, two girls went by, watching him covertly, liking his hooked face and his air of controlled energy. One, more daring than the other, said, ‘It’s not for sale.’

He flashed a grin at her, but couldn’t afford to have them remember his face, so he turned and walked away. ‘I don’t bite,’ called the girl to his departing back. He raised his hand.

Once inside the lift, he pulled on latex gloves and put his hands in his pockets. He got off at the eighth floor. When the doors closed behind him, he waited and listened. The heavy air carried the chill of winter, laced with food odours-curry, fried onion, soggy vegetables-and it trembled with cop show sirens and shrill advertisements. He noticed the scratched wood and scuffed walls. Then a door creaked in a breeze and he saw by the number that it was Hobba’s. Light spilled out, onto the grimy corridor floor.

That was bad. He turned to get away from there. A voice said, ‘Excuse me, sir.’

A young policeman had appeared at the bend in the corridor. He stood well clear of Wyatt, his right hand at his revolver butt. He had wary eyes above a smudge of adolescent moustache.

‘Do you live here, sir?’

Wyatt nodded at Hobba’s door, keeping his gloved hands in his pockets. ‘Just calling on a friend,’ he said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I think you’d better speak to Sergeant Hickey, sir,’ the policeman responded.

‘What happened? Is Rob all right?’

‘Knock on the door, please, sir.’

Wyatt tapped on Hobba’s half-open door, positioning his body to obscure the latex glove. The door swung further open. All Hobba’s lights seemed to be on. The air smelt stale. A print had been pulled off the wall, the telephone stand was overturned, and through the doorway at the end he saw heaped clothing, scraps of paper and empty, dumped drawers. Then a uniformed figure loomed in the hallway, blocking the light, and an irritable voice said, ‘Who the hell are you?’

Behind Wyatt the young policeman said, ‘I found him in the corridor, Sergeant. He says he’s acquainted with the occupant.’

‘Well I never. Acquainted with the occupant.’

Hickey looked searchingly at Wyatt. He was slight, quick-looking, with a face and manner inclined to sarcasm. ‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Just popped around, did you?’

Wyatt shrugged. ‘Well…’

‘What’s your name, sunshine?’

‘Lake,’ Wyatt said. ‘Look, sorry if I barged in on something. I’ll just-’

‘Lake. You got form, Lake?’

‘Me? No way’

‘Didn’t get acquainted with the old Hobba in Pentridge, by any chance?’

‘Not me,’ Wyatt said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You tell me,’ Hickey said. He stood back and motioned for Wyatt to enter the flat. ‘In the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch anything. I mean anything.’

Wyatt was prepared to see Hobba sprawled on the floor, but the kitchen was empty. Every surface had been dusted for fingerprints. Doors and drawers hung open and dirty plates were heaped in the sink. The contents of the refrigerator were scattered over the floor. Wyatt stopped just inside the door, consciously positioning himself so that both cops would have to stand beyond the table, but Hickey prodded his shoulder and said, ‘No, sunshine, other side.’

Wyatt walked around the table. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘I just came around to say hello.’ He was playing the indignant, seedy pal, but the situation threatened to turn bad so he stood loose and alert by the table, gauging distances and angles.

‘Was he expecting you?’ Hickey said.

Wyatt shrugged. ‘Talked to him during the week. Said I might come over tonight.’

‘You didn’t see him earlier today?’

‘No. You looking for him?’

‘I’m asking the questions. Were you around the place earlier, maybe giving it a spring-clean?’

‘No. I told you, I just dropped by now to have a few beers.’

‘Have you got the key to this flat?’

Wyatt looked from one man to the other. The young policeman was guarding the doorway. Hickey stood opposite Wyatt, his hands loose at his sides.

‘A key? No, why?’

‘Watch my lips,’ Hickey said. ‘I’m asking the questions.’

Wyatt made a cowed, sulky face, playing along with this. Hickey watched him for a moment. ‘You don’t look right to me, sunshine,’ he said suddenly. He turned. ‘Does he look right to you, Constable?’

The young policeman straightened. ‘No, Sergeant.’

Hickey swung back to Wyatt. ‘There you have it. Two votes against you. Got any ID, Mr Lake?’

Wyatt said, ‘Not on me, no.’

‘Not on you,’ Hickey said heavily. ‘No driver’s licence, no credit cards, no video library card?’

Wyatt frowned, concentrating, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘How do you get by?’ Hickey said, throwing up his hands. ‘This day and age you can’t go anywhere without ID.’

The young cop was grinning at the performance. It was a mistake: it made him too relaxed. His arms were folded and he was rocking back and forth. His reaction time would be slow. Wyatt concentrated on Hickey. Hickey was enjoying himself but Wyatt knew he would move in an instant if he had to.

Then Hickey changed tack. ‘What kind of car does your fat mate drive?’

Wyatt tensed. He said, trying to stay ahead of Hickey, ‘Last time I heard, he was between cars.’

Hickey scowled. ‘Did you know he’d hired one?’

‘No,’ Wyatt said. ‘I didn’t.’

From the doorway came the young constable’s voice: ‘A Corolla from one of them cheap places.’

Hickey turned, regarded the constable for a moment, then faced Wyatt again. ‘Hired yesterday, in fact.’

‘Fake ID,’ the young cop said. ‘The details don’t check out.’

Hickey said, ‘I’m really grateful to you for filling us in, Cuntstable. Now perhaps you’d like to continue your doorknocking?’

The constable blushed deeply and left the room. A few seconds later, Wyatt heard the front door squeak. He shifted position slightly. ‘Can I go? I can’t help you, don’t really know the bloke.’

‘Sit down,’ Hickey said. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’ He waited while Wyatt, his gloved hands in his pockets, hooked out a chair with his foot and sat in it.

‘What I wonder is, why hire a cheap car when you’ve got enough to buy three new ones.’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Would you know where old Rob got that kind of money?’

Wyatt said, ‘Like I told you, I didn’t know him that well. Just to have a quiet beer with now and then, type of thing.’

Hickey nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t know what he did for a crust?’

‘No.’

‘He’s been inside for armed robbery, did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t know much, do you, sunshine? What were you inside for?’

Wyatt said truthfully, ‘Never been in. Got a clean record.’

Hickey took out his notebook. ‘Maybe you could just give me your full name and address and occupation and phone number.’ He curled his lip. ‘Unless, of course, you’re between jobs and places at the moment?’

‘Nothing like that,’ Wyatt said. He gave his name as Tom Lake and recited a false address and phone number. ‘Storeman,’ he said.