Peter Temple - Black Tide

‘Mr S?’

‘Levesque. Mr Smartarse.’

‘How did Gary get back here?’

‘Everything had to be normal. Gary flew on to Melbourne, direct. He was coming from Europe. Because Canetti’s got his testimony on video, Gary’s with us now. Doesn’t behave, he’s on “Australia’s Funniest Home Videos”. And he can’t go to his bosses, say: “Sorry, I told people about you cause I didn’t want to go to jail in Bangkok for twenty years.’’ They’d kill him on the spot.’

I was starting to understand.

‘There was a risk,’ said Dave. ‘What if he gets straight off the plane, onto another one, he’s gone, out of the country, vanished? But we knew he didn’t have a cash stash anywhere, not enough put away to hide out in Ethiopia, Bangladesh. Anyway, nothing like that happens. He gets the Audi, drives home. We pulled our bloke off him then, too risky otherwise. A third party spots her, it’s over, Gary’s dead, we’ve got a video of a dead man telling stories. Maybe we shouldn’t even have tailed him home, who the fuck knows. Looking back, why the hell did we? Either Canetti had him by the balls or he didn’t.’

He glanced at me, ducked his head, drew on the Camel. ‘Anyway, that’s the last we saw of him.’

‘And Canetti?’

‘We didn’t want him to fly with Gary. Too risky also. He came back on the next flight. We know he was on the plane, know he got off. That’s all we know. That’s when the looking for them both started.’

‘He wasn’t met?’

Dave looked at me, scratched the dense moustache with the index finger of his left hand. ‘Meet him? Canetti was the only cleanskin we had. You didn’t go near Canetti. Nobody knew Canetti except three of us. We waited for Canetti to finish the Gary interrogation and call us.’

He picked up his cigarettes, weighed the packet, looked at me again.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that was Black Tide. Started with twelve. And tonight Black Tide’s more or less me and you, Jack.’

‘I don’t recall being asked to join,’ I said.

He smiled. ‘No. Me neither.’

We sat in silence for a while.

‘What we’ll do,’ said Dave, ‘we’ll just freewheel down there, lights out, pray some pointy in a truck doesn’t come along. Stop around the corner, walk back, up round the side to the house.’

‘Dogs,’ I said. ‘Looks like a place with dogs.’ In an instant, the adrenaline was running again, I wasn’t feeling tired and old, wasn’t feeling scared. It occurred to me that this was probably a bad thing.

‘Dogs we can handle. A few dogs.’ He opened the glovebox and took out a flat foil-wrapped package, the size of a large bar of chocolate.

‘What I’m going to do here,’ Dave said, ‘is try to bluff the boy out. Had a bit of success with this. Which means fuckall. Still, avoids some prick shooting him, shooting other people, possibly innocent people. Doesn’t work, we’ve got a problem. But. Same problem if there’s two of you or fifty-two testosterone-crazed arseheads with guns. Important thing is Gary alive.’

I said, ‘What do I do?’

He touched my arm, the big fingers. ‘Jack, only thing is Gary alive. Gary dead is everything gone. Black Tide one and two finished, total waste of time, bent bastards win. Again.’

‘I do what?’

‘Put the light on him, get the cuffs on. You’re the cuffman. Apart from that, nothing. You know his old man. It might help. The bluff fails, we creep away, try something else. What, I can’t think at the moment. Might come to me.’

He coughed. ‘Also might not.’

‘The bluff?’

‘Just a bluff. Pray the phone’s on. Pray the fucking mobile network’s got this part of pointyland covered. They say it has.’

He was looking into the valley, at the dark buildings. ‘Dean Canetti,’ he said. ‘Ordinary bloke, not big, more guts than John Wayne. If John Wayne was real.’

I didn’t owe anything to this man, didn’t even know his surname. Far from it. It was courtesy of him that I had gone so far up the sewage creek in an unsuitable vessel. He had managed to get me into the canoe and then to convince me that disembarkation was not an option.

He deserved nothing. But he was a man doing the right thing, a brave man. I felt a warmth towards him.

Dave raised his elbows, flexed his shoulders. ‘Well, let’s see how it goes.’

‘Shouldn’t I be armed? He’s killed three people if I read this thing right.’

He released the handbrake. We began to move. ‘One man with a gun’s plenty,’ he said. ‘You might get excited.’

We rolled to a stop off the road. Dave found the handcuffs, flat high-tech things, not metal, light.

‘Just get it on the wrist, press closed. A spring locks it.’

He opened the boot, took out two bulky bulletproof vests, dull black nylon windcheaters, a long matt-black flashlight. We took off our coats, put on the gear. The vest was surprisingly light. There was something in my right windcheater pocket. A handkerchief, a folded handkerchief. From the last operation, presumably. Ironed and folded by someone. A loving spouse?

We walked back half a kilometre, climbed a fence at the strainer post. Not easily, in my case, carrying the flashlight.

On Painter’s soil, Painter’s buildings to the right. Damp soil, spongy. We walked to the left of the big buildings, Dave in front, uphill, going becoming heavy.

‘Fuck this,’ Dave said quietly. ‘Go down, take the road.’

We went downhill, walked between the big tin sheds. Chicken factory no more. Some rust, things lying around, general air of disuse. We turned left, walking just off the track, uphill, protected by a row of young evergreen trees.

The dark house. Low brick dwelling, old. On the site long before the egg factory. Fence, straggly hedge, vehicle gate off to the right. At the front gate, an old truck was parked, Dodge or Ford.

Ten metres from the truck, Dave stopped, knelt. I knelt close to him, feeling my heartbeat now.

‘I’m making the call.’ Soft, steady voice. ‘If I get him, I’m heading straight for the front door. You get behind the truck, watch my left arm. Goes up, put the light on the front door. When I’ve got the gun on him, get up there, don’t hurry, don’t spook him. Cuff him. Okay?’

I nodded, heart thumping now.

Dave took out his tiny mobile, pressed a button. The numbers glowed. He punched in a combination, put the phone to his ear.

I could hear the telephone ringing in the house.

Ringing.

Ringing.

Our eyes were locked. Dave looked faintly amused. With his right hand, he unholstered an automatic pistol from under his left armpit.

Ringing.

‘Hello.’ A tentative woman’s voice. Fear in it.

Dave smiled, a rueful smile.

‘Gary Connors, please,’ he said.

Silence.

Dave held up the phone for me to hear.

The receiver being put down on a hard surface.

Silence.

Noises.

I looked at the dark house. What was happening in there?

A voice said, ‘Gary Connors.’

A tired voice but not sleepy.

‘Gary. Detective Inspector David Gwynne of the Australian Federal Police. Hello. I’m outside. Your house is surrounded by police officers. What I’d like you to do is come to the front door, open it, come out with your hands in the air. That’s the easy way. The trained killers around the house have other ideas. Destroy the whole place, everyone in it. With me?’

Dave stood up and started walking towards the house, phone at his left ear, pistol in his right hand, down. When he got to the truck, I scuttled after him, got to the left front wheel of the truck, peered around the bumper.

‘No-one will harm you, Gary,’ Dave’s quiet voice was saying. ‘Give you my word. I want you alive, very much alive. And you’ll stay alive. Cover you with my own body at the door, these trigger-happy bastards aren’t going to risk shooting me.’