Peter Temple: Black Tide

‘Yes. Not necessarily in that order.’

‘And was murdered where?’

‘Well, I didn’t want to say it, but here most likely. Then the place was searched. That’s why his workroom got the second big clean-out in months.’

‘So they probably found the tapes.’

‘Probably. The safe deposit was the real hope.’

‘But if he had copies made, he wouldn’t keep the originals and the copies together. Not if he was worried about them. One set might be here somewhere.’

We sat in silence for a long time, Lyall with her elbows on the table, chin in her palms. The day was fading into night, no lights on in the house, gloom gathering in the kitchen.

She got up, put on lights, went to the window. ‘I’m trying to think about the days after Stuart’s sister rang and said she was worried, what sort of things Bradley and I noticed. All I can think of is Bradley saying “Stuart’s been driving around without his spare. That’s a really stupid thing to do.’’’

‘His spare?’

‘Spare wheel.’

In the garage, on my first inspection of Stuart’s car, I’d seen the wheels leaning against the back wall.

Five wheels.

‘So Bradley didn’t take the spare out when he put the car on blocks?’

‘A man came and did it. But that’s what Bradley said. Stuart had been driving around without his spare. He must have seen it out.’

I could feel a tightness in my stomach.

‘Might have a look,’ I said.

Lyall found the car keys.

I went out to the garage. It was fully dark now, wind and rain muting the traffic noise from Royal Parade. No light. I found my way to Stuart’s car by feel, running my hand along the rough unplastered brick wall, finding the BMW’s right tail-lights, the boot lock.

The ignition key unlocked the boot. I remembered that the lid didn’t come up automatically, you had to get your fingertips under the numberplate and lift.

As before, it resisted, then came up suddenly.

The strong smell of leaked brake fluid.

I ran my hands over the bottom of the boot, a heavy-duty plastic lining.

A depression in the middle.

The spare wheel housing.

Something in the depression.

I pressed. It didn’t yield.

I felt the edges of the boot lining. Locking clips on each side. Six locking clips. I twisted them to vertical, grasped the lining with a hand on each side.

It came up.

I put my right hand under it, into the large sump in the middle, found the object.

Found a handle. Pulled it out.

Too dark to see anything. I left the boot as it was, bumped my way outside.

The kitchen lights sent a broad white carpet across the courtyard.

I was carrying a small aluminium suitcase, a worn suitcase with battered corners.

I couldn’t wait. Standing in the rain and wind, I pushed the catches sideways, opened the case.

Lyall in the kitchen doorway. ‘What?’ she said.

One thing in the case. A grey A4 document box, the kind with a spring clip inside.

I couldn’t hold the suitcase and open the box. Lyall came across in three strides, took the box out of the case, opened it.

I expelled breath, said, ‘Jesus, finally the Irish have some luck.’

Fiery wink at the edge of my vision, a blow to my chest, shoulder, not painful, a push, a powerful push, felt myself going backwards, turning, came right around, saw a man at the corner of the house, a man in black, arms outstretched, dull grey pipe in his hands pointing at me. Bark, bark of an old dog, a grey-muzzled dog, token bark, wink of flame with it, another bark and wink.

I was falling, staggering. No, I didn’t want to fall, I wouldn’t fall, steadied myself, didn’t fall, came back upright, suitcase in my left hand, put out my right hand. Get Lyall out of the line of fire, push her, push her away. My hand reached her, shoved, I saw her stumble backwards, away from me.

Looking at the man in black.

In the light from the kitchen now.

I knew him. The tired man from the Federal government who called on me at Taub’s with the woman with the gleaming tight-set teeth. Fair hair combed sideways, little widow’s peak, grey at the temples. A Uniting Church minister on the side.

Jack, piece of no-bullshit advice. You don’t want to be involved in anything to do with Dean Canetti. At the very least, it’ll be a serious embarrassment. Could be much, much worse than that.

He was right. It was much, much worse than that.

The bastard. One of the murderous bastards…kill your friend, kill your wife, kill your child, kill you, it’s all the same…A cold rage was in me now, no fear. He wasn’t going to kill anyone here, not here, the bastard, not here, I can’t afford to lose another person, not a single person, lost too many people, not one more, not a single…

He was pointing the pipe at me, smiling, not a Uniting Church smile, not an understanding and empathetic smile, more the smile of someone who has caught you out in a logical error, takes pleasure in your discomfort.

Bastard. Not taking anyone from me, not taking me from anyone, not here, not tonight…

My left arm came around, no thought to it, threw the aluminium case at him, saw it in the air, lid open, saw him take his left hand off the pipe, put it up to block the case. I went for him, lunged across the space between us, got to him just after the case, got both hands on the pistol, felt the heat of the silencer. Loud bark in my face, burning air against my cheek. I tried to break the weapon from his hand, failed, took a hand off it, tried to hit him, swiped at his face, missed, tried again, felt the contact, saw the gun butt coming…

A burst of light in my eyes, pain in my head, falling sideways, trying to hold onto him, his face back in focus, smooth clerical face, grey eyes…

One grey eye gone, hole where an eye was, dark hole, warm liquid on my lips, the man falling away from me.

I got up, surprised at my ability to get up. Standing.

Last man standing. Again.

No.

Another man standing. In the shadow of the house, not far away, weapon in hand, weapon that had taken away the man’s grey eye, weapon still pointing at him.

Lyall was on the ground, getting up. I walked over, not a sure walk, put out a hand to her, pulled her up, very little strength available. She rose, came to me, put her head on my chest, a person unharmed, and I was grateful beyond measure.

The man came out of the shadows.

A man in black. Short hair, lips parted.

Lipstick on the lips. Dark red. Gleaming teeth.

Not another man standing.

A woman standing. The clergyman’s partner at Taub’s, the woman with the TV commercial teeth and the black Smartie eyes, the tiny male cleft in her pale chin, the fingernail pressed into dough.

She walked over to us, putting the weapon into her armpit, looked me over, calm eyes, cold eyes, looked at Lyall, patted her on the shoulder like a coach, looked at me.

‘All right?’ she said.

I couldn’t speak, didn’t want to speak.

‘You’ll live,’ she said. ‘You’re on your feet, you’ll live.’ To Lyall she said, ‘Take him to St Vincent’s casualty. Thing’s probably out the other side, touched nothing. Luck. Like the movies.’

She took a wallet out of a hip pocket, held it to the light, found a card, gave it to Lyall. ‘Give them this. Anyone. Tell them to phone the number. Then book into the Hyatt, stay as long as you like, bill’s not your problem. We’ll clean up here. You stay away for a while.’

At me. ‘It’s not over, Jack.’

I looked at the man lying near the corner of the house, the man who tried to kill me, the big black pool spreading around his head, looked down at my shoulder, pulled myself together. ‘It’s over for this suit,’ I said. ‘Can’t find anyone to invisibly mend bullet holes anymore.’