Authors: Peter Corris
Grant opened the door and we shook hands and slapped shoulders and I went into a house that bore no
resemblance to the last one I’d been in. The big terrace was warm and scruffy—the banister was hung with clothes, and books and boots littered the bottom stairs. I could hear rock music playing upstairs and a dog of indeterminate breed wandered out of a room off the hall to see what was going on.
Jo Evans is a shy woman who says a lot to Grant in private, all good sense, but not much in public. She smiled hello, and one of Grant’s teenage daughters appeared at the top of the stairs to check me out. She’d left the door open behind her and the rock decibels mounted. She waved and ducked back.
‘Studying,’ Grant said. He shook his head in mock despair.
‘Where’s the other one?’
Grant looked at Jo. ‘Raging,’ she said.
Grant ushered me into his study. I sat down in an old armchair I remembered from his Sydney house, and he rubbed his hands.
‘Great to see you, mate. What’ll it be? Got some great reds.’
He looked as if he’d been sampling them more than in the old days. Grant always had a weight problem and it looked as if he’d given up the struggle. His belt was out a few more notches than it used to be, and flesh had wadded itself in comfortably around his neck and chin. He’d lost some more hair and seemed to move more slowly than I remembered, but he looked a lot happier than he had in Sydney, when he’d been trying to keep his figure neat and his hands clean.
‘Give me a belt of something rough first,’ I said. ‘I need it. Then I’ll sample your best Wimmera white.’
‘Peasant.’ He opened a small fridge, took out a bottle, pulled the cork out with his fingers and poured me a generous slug in a pottery mug. ‘What’s the job?’
I put the wine down my throat without tasting it while he used a corkscrew on another bottle. This time he filled a glass and pushed it across to me. I filled my mouth,
tipped my head back and gargled.
‘Jesus,’ Grant said, ‘would you like to mix it with dry ginger?’
‘Wouldn’t mind. What is it?’
‘The best. Never mind. What is it that’s got you looking so haunted?’
‘Haunted? Do I look haunted? God, I don’t know, it’s a weird one. I wish I was out of it.’
‘That’s a change.’ He sat down opposite me on a divan and sipped his red wine. I gave him the whole thing in outline; he raised his eyebrows when I got to the part about finding the body and slipping off without reporting it, but that was his only reaction. I finished my wine and accepted another. Sleep wasn’t going to be a problem.
‘Your focus seems to be shifting,’ he said.
‘How d’you mean?’
‘You started out looking for Reeves’ car, then you seemed to get more interested in finding this writer bloke; the way you wound up it sounds as if you’re more interested in the car angle again.’
‘Maybe that’s just because it’s your field of expertise.’
‘Mm, don’t think so. I’m an expert on shits, too, and this Mountain sounds like a prize example.’
‘He probably is. His girlfriend’s a good kid, though. Maybe I’m obliging her. D’you know anything about a racket like this? Cars going off in numbers?’
‘No. Be hard to get far with that kind of thing in Victoria. Very tight at Motor Registration they tell me. Wasn’t always of course.’ He rolled some wine in his mouth, and let his cop’s mind run. ‘Insurance boys are on their toes; spray shops and spares outlets get a pretty good looking-at; stolen cars go straight on the computer and that’s working smoothly. The print-outs get around real fast, even up the bush. You’d need new plates within hours.’
‘Just a thought. It’s bloody well-organised and must’ve cost a bundle to set up. Somebody must be finding it worthwhile somewhere.’
Grant drank some more red, and I enjoyed watching his enjoyment. Then he frowned in a way I’d seen before, usually when what I was doing was grossly unpolicemanly. ‘This is tricky, Cliff. I don’t know how much there is in it, but I did hear that things aren’t as tight as they might be in the west.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You can do a bit of good with hot cars if you’ve got the right ones in the right places. In Askin’s day in Sydney, they were shuffling licences and registrations like decks of cards. I saw plenty of it.’
‘I heard,’ I said. ‘Nice sideline to the gambling and the drugs.’
Grant looked pained. It was an awkward moment; I’d have bet my life that he’d never taken a dollar, but the subject never sat easily with us. Usually I joked about it, but not always. The front door slammed and I heard a young female shriek followed by the clatter of feet on the stairs. Grant’s face relaxed. He glanced at his watch.
‘Not bad,’ he said.
I lifted my glass to toast his daughter’s return. ‘The west you say? Could explain some things.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ve had the feeling all along that some of the methods used have been a bit over the top. The guy up in Blackheath looked like a heavy number, and they’ve been breaking arms and legs. I know people do a lot for money, but if there’s bent policemen involved, needing protection, that ups the stakes.’
‘It’s a problem,’ Grant said.
‘Sounds like something for this new Federal Crimes Commission or whatever it’s called.’
Grant smiled.
‘No good, eh?’
‘How long did it take to get a standard gauge railway?’
I yawned. I was feeling the effects of the long day, and nothing Grant had said was encouraging. It sounded as if
the whole case could disappear down a hole, and right then I was too tired to care.
Let it,
I thought. But I knew that I’d have to face up to Terry Reeves and Erica Fong, and I’d been down holes after things before.
‘You look whacked, Cliff.’
‘Yeah, I am. I’m sorry, Grant, I haven’t asked you anything about how you are—the job here and all. You look happy.’
He patted his belly. ‘I am. This’s one of the penalties I guess. Jo’s fine, the girls’re good. The job’s good. I couldn’t fix a parking ticket here if I wanted to. I like that.’
I nodded, and he grinned at me. ‘There’s things I like about this place. I miss Sydney, but I sleep better here.’
‘That’s good, Grant. You’re lucky.’
He swilled the rest of his wine. ‘You’re a hypocritical bastard, Cliff. You couldn’t bear to do the same thing twice in a week, let alone day after day.’
I had to agree with that. I drank a little more wine and did some more yawning and things between us got easier. He told me about his plan to buy some land and make wine, and I made a crack about wine and Evans. I caught him up on the latest about a few mutual friends in Sydney, like Harry Tickener who writes for the
News,
and Pat Kenneally who trains greyhounds. I told him a bit about Helen Broadway too.
‘Involved with a polygamist,’ he said. ‘Gawd.’
‘I’m a bit of a polygamist too.’
It was his turn to yawn. ‘Not much of a one I’ll bet. I can’t say I envy you. Anyway, I’m too old and too fat for anything but monogamy.’
It was the sort of remark you grunt at. I grunted.
‘I’ll fix you a bed, hang on.’
He heaved himself up, definitely moving more slowly, and went out to talk to his partner in monogamy. I sat back with the last of the wine—the polygamist, sleeping alone.
Grant came back with some bedding and plonked it
down on the divan.
‘I won’t tuck you in.’
‘Thanks.’
‘See you in the morning.’
I slept for a few hours and then had to get up and wander about until I found the toilet. Then I lay awake and read some Morris West. Then I read the ‘Bigamists, Polygamists etc.’ section of
Famous Sex Lives.
Eventually I put the book down and slept until I was aroused by the sounds made in the morning by people who do the same thing day after day.
Over breakfast, Grant told me he’d put an ear to the ground about the rumours on motor malpractice in the west. The older daughter Kay, the one who’d been out raging, asked Grant for money for her driving lesson, and he forked it over with an indulgent smile. Kay was the best-looking member of the family and she had the biggest smile.
‘Why don’t you teach her yourself, Grant?’ I said.
Kay laughed. ‘He gets driven everywhere, he’s such a big shot. I think he’s forgotten how to drive.’
Grant leaned back in his chair. ‘I see myself driving a tractor in a sunny vineyard.’
‘Dream on, Dad,’ Kay said.
E
VANS
and his offspring went to work and school respectively. As I tidied up the bedding, I realised that I had a hangover from last night’s wine. Not a bad hangover, but not a thing to take up in a pressurised plane. I mentioned the fact to Jo and she came through with the sort of non-judgmental practical advice Grant had benefited from for twenty years.
‘There’s a spa and sauna close by that Grant uses for his hangovers. Why don’t you give it a try?’
Every passing moment made it seem like a better idea; I got the address, gave Jo my thanks and went out to the car. The morning was clear and cold; I wiped moisture from the windows and finished up with a handful of grey, oily tissues that made me feel decidedly worse. The Executive Spa was a concrete building with tinted glass windows and deep carpet, even in the changing room. Another item on Terry Reeves’ bill.
I hired swimming togs and ploughed up and down the little heated pool until arm weariness and boredom forced me to stop. I soaked in the spa, massaging all the working parts with the bubbles, and sat in the sauna until I’d sweated out all the toxins.
I towelled off and sauntered into the well-equipped gym. I set the Nautilus machine shamefully low and did some light work on that. Then I skipped a bit and tapped away at the heavy bag, putting more into moving my feet than my punches. The gym instructor bounced across the way they do.
‘You’ve done it before,’ he said.
‘Just amateur, fair while ago.’
‘You’ve got into some bad habits—you’re opening your fist, slapping.’
I closed my fist and punched again.
He nodded approvingly. ‘Where’re you from?’
‘Sydney. Going back today.’
He sighed. ‘Jeez, I wish I could go to Sydney. Did you know that sixty-eight per cent of people in Melbourne wish they were somewhere else?’
Great place, Melbourne, you can get sociology from gym instructors.
The treatment worked. I felt so good when I got on the plane at Tullamarine that I slept all the way to Sydney.
I’d left the Falcon on an upper level of the airport car park, slotted in next to a wall. The car looked lonely now with empty spaces all around. My sprightly feet rang on the concrete and I reached, without fumbling, into the right pocket for my keys, feeling alert and competent. That’s when they jumped me. Perhaps it was the restorative effects of the spa, or the gym workout or the nap on the plane, but my reactions were sharp. The first one, a big, flabby-looking guy, tried to grab me to give his mate something to work on: he got my bag swung hard into his face and then my fist driving in under the nose and up, which hurts. He bellowed with pain and backed away. That left the smaller man grabbing empty air: I brushed his wild swing away, moved in close and jolted him under the heart. He grunted and folded in two; I kept my fist classically closed and hooked him below the ear. He sighed and went down on one knee. The big man came back but I was in a crouch by then, still moving, and I came up from the crouch and butted him in the stomach. My head was hard, his belly was soft; he took the butt with all my moving weight behind it in the worst place. He collapsed, twisted onto his side and was violently sick.
We were only a few feet from my car; the blood was pounding in my head and I felt as if I could lift them both up and throw them over the parapet for a five-storey drop.
I half wanted to. Instead, I half-nelsoned the smaller man to his feet, rushed him forward and banged his face into the side of the Falcon. While he was thinking about that I opened the door and got the Colt .45 out from its clip under the dashboard.
I took a punt that the smaller man was the smarter of the two. I rolled the sick one over with my foot and showed him the gun. He was pale already and at the sight of the gun he went a bit paler. He was fat and didn’t seem to have the temperament for the line of work he was in.
‘Pick up the bag and put it in the car.’ I jerked the Colt to underline the order and he got up slowly, bent painfully for my bag and went across to the car. He stepped around his groaning colleague and put the bag on the passenger seat.
‘Now say goodbye to your mate for a while and piss off.’ Another gesture with the gun and he was on his way. I’d been lucky; no-one had come up to the level while the fracas was on and he looked very lonely as he limped off down the ramp. I couldn’t expect the luck to last, so I swung the gun around and dropped onto my knee beside the other man. We were sheltered behind the car and he looked very scared.
‘Get in the car,’ I said. ‘Do everything right and you still have a chance.’
He swore, to give himself courage, but he got into the car. As I got in, a car roared up the ramp and into a space a few metres away. I looked at my companion; he had an acne-scarred face, sparse lank hair and an expression that suggested he was out for revenge against the whole world. If I’d been drawing up the battle orders I’d have sent him in ahead of Flabby. All things considered, he’d recovered pretty well from the battering he’d had; his wind was coming back and he was working on it, taking medium deep breaths slowly.
‘It’s pretty quiet here,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the windows up as you see, and I can wrap something around this. I can put a
bullet in you anywhere I like.’
The new arrival slammed his door and went over in the direction of the lift. The noise was muffled, almost squishy in the closed car.
‘Hear that? The bullet that cripples you can make less noise than that. Understand?’
He nodded and took a slow breath.
‘You can stop working on your wind; you’ve been out-classed; accept it. Now if you want to walk away from here you’re going to have to do some good talking. I’m going to have to be pleased with what you say.’