The Dying Trade ch-1 Read online

  12

  The part-timers, looking tired already, were getting out of their cars as I got into mine. I decided to make for a pub and have a few drinks before calling Ailsa. I’d been hired to help a woman I found I cordially disliked and had ended up working for one about whom I had quite different feelings. It was a big changeabout in a short space of time and I wondered what effect it was having on my judgment. I wonder better over a glass of something, so I put off the effort until I had the conditions right. After a scotch in a place near the dog track, I picked the right money out of my change and put it into the red phone at the corner of the bar. The wall was scarred with a hundred telephone numbers and the names and numbers of innumerable horses and dogs. The directory was a tattered ruin. I read the record of losing favourites and one-leg doubles as I waited for Ailsa to answer her phone. It rang and rang hopelessly and I hung up, checked the number and rang again. The result was the same and the repeated buzz on the line chilled and sobered me like a bucket of ice water in the face.

  I ran to the Falcon and unparked it regardless of duco and chrome. I ripped my way through the late afternoon traffic towards Mosman.

  There were no cops about and I set records through the winding roads towards the Bridge. I hit the Harbour Bridge approach and pushed the Falcon to the limit cursing it for its sluggishness and refusal to steer straight.

  I ran into Ailsa’s drive too fast and nearly spun the car around full circle in bringing it to a stop in front of the house. I unshipped my gun and went up the steps at a gallop. I hammered on the door and wrenched at the handle but it was locked so I kicked in the glass pane next to it. The thick glass shattered and splintered where my foot hit it and the rest of the pane came crashing down like a guillotine. I went in through the jagged hole and raced through the house, poking the gun into each room and calling Ailsa’s name. I found her in the bedroom. She was naked and her clothes had been torn in strips to truss her up and tie her to the frame of the bed. She was breathing harshly through puffed, split lips and her body was criss-crossed with long, heavily bleeding scratches. There were round, white-flaked burn marks on her forearms and the room smelled of singed hair and skin. I grabbed the bedroom phone and called for an ambulance, then I untied the strips of fabric and lifted her up onto the bed. I tucked a pillow under her head, her pulse was strong but she was rigid and sweating and there were now lines in her face that looked like they would stay there forever.

  I got some water from the kitchen, went back to the bedroom and lifted her head a little to the rim of the glass. She opened her eyes and lapped at the water. Her eyes showed that her body was a package of pain. She looked at me reproachfully.

  “Some protector,” she croaked through her battered lips.

  “Ailsa, I’m sorry,” my voice sounded like grit in ball bearings. “Who did it love, why?”

  “Bryn… and another man. I let them in. Other man slapped me and stripped me. Bryn just watched.”

  The effort of speaking was doing her no good, she was in deep shock and her face was pale and waxy, but I had to know a little more.

  “Listen love, just answer in one word or shake your head, understand?”

  She nodded.

  “What did Bryn want?”

  “Files.”

  “Gutteridge’s files?”

  A nod.

  “Did Bryn touch you?”

  A shake, no.

  “Just the other guy. Was Bryn there all the time?”

  A shake.

  “Why did he leave? What did you tell him?”‘

  “Brave.”

  “You told him Brave had the files. Is that true?”

  She closed her eyes and I eased her back down onto the pillow.

  “You don’t know,” I said almost under my breath. “Good girl, that was smart.” There was one last thing I needed to know. I smoothed down the cap of hair which was sweaty and sticking up in spikes. “Ailsa, I have to know this. When did Bryn leave, can you tell me?”‘

  “You rang,” she whispered, “he left.”

  That made it half an hour or so, a little more. If he went to Brave’s place directly he’d be there within an hour. Maybe he wasn’t there yet and perhaps I could still spring the trap. Ailsa seemed to have lost consciousness, I checked her pulse again, still strong, I pulled a sheet up over her body and was just watching the blood ooze through it when I heard the sirens.

  “Where?” the shout came from the front of the house.

  “Back bedroom,” I bellowed.

  Two ambulance men charged into the room carrying a stretcher. The young fresh-faced one stopped short, he hadn’t done much in this line of work before. The older man took a glance then busied himself preparing the stretcher. His face was an expressionless mask.

  “Anything broke?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He pulled the sheet aside carefully and gently lifted her arms and legs an inch or so; he put his ear to her chest.

  “Think you’re right. Has to be moved anyway, needs treatment fast. OK Snowy, stop gawking. On the stretcher.”

  The boy did his share smartly enough.

  “Who did this?” he said as they were fastening the straps.

  “A friend.”

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks, he’s going to be sorrier.”

  While this was going on I found Ailsa’s address book and the name and number of her doctor. I wrote them on the back of my card and tucked it into the older guy’s overall pocket.

  “I’m admitting her. Her doctor’s name and number are on the card, it’s my card. Her name’s Ailsa Sleeman, double e. Where will she be?”

  He raised an eyebrow and seemed to be going to protest until he got a good look at my face. “St Bede’s,” he said nervously. “You should admit her personally, but I guess you’re going to be busy.”

  “That’s right.”

  I told him I’d contact the police and he offered no argument to that. They carried her gingerly out of the house, down the steps and put her in the ambulance. The siren screamed and the vehicle wailed off towards the city.

  It was early for my calls to Evans and Tickener, but perhaps too late. A packet of Ailsa’s cigarettes was lying on the floor near the bed and I took one out mechanically and put it in my mouth. Then I looked at the floor again. Three long butts had been squashed out into the deep pile of the carpet making charred holes as big as five cent pieces. I spat the cigarette out, grabbed the phone and dialled. Tickener’s voice was flat, bored, he wasn’t expecting me yet.

  “This is Hardy,” I said, “things are breaking. Here’s what I want you to do…” He interrupted me. “Listen Hardy, I’ve been looking into this Brave. He’s weird, he…”

  I cut in. “Yeah, I know. Tell me later. I want you to get out to the clinic as fast as you can. Colin Jones around, is he?”

  “Yes, matter of fact he’s right here now. I had a word with him, mate of yours I understand…”

  I cut him off again. “Bring him! The cops won’t be far behind you and I won’t be far behind them. Give the place a bit of air the way you did before, OK?”

  “OK Hardy. We’re busting Brave?”

  “Wide open,” I said, “and you’re an A grade from tomorrow if you handle it right.”

  I rang off and dialled Evans’ number. He answered testily.

  “You’re early, you’re never early, it can’t be you.”

  “It’s me, I was pushed. My client’s been cut and burned and our men aren’t standing about. Can you move now?”

  “Yeah, but give me something for the sheet.”

  “Put what you like on it, but don’t put this — Costello.”

  “Shit!”

  “Right. I think Brave has him at his clinic in Longueville. Your mate Jackson is running interference and a Dr Clyde is doing the remodelling of Costello’s dial. I want Brave. Costello’s just a byproduct to me but I haven’t got any time for him anyway. Suit you?”

  �
�And how!” I could hear the scratch of his writing across the line. I gave him the address and a few other details. I was praying that Bryn’s trip to Longueville would delay things out there enough so that all the principals wouldn’t be on planes to Rio by the time the law, the press and I got there.

  I got up off the floor with creaking knee joints and needles of pain in my skull. I looked around the room, at the bloody sheets, the cigarette ends and the ripped clothes. Some light was coming in from an opening in the curtains and I could see the swimming pool still reflecting light challengingly close, but I doubted that Ailsa would ever feel like reading her novels, smoking her cigarettes and being warm and loving in that room again. It was a room I’d liked more than most, and it made me sad to know how it’d been used by the worst sort of human being to create the worst sort of pain.

  There was a small clutch of neighbours across the road standing on a second level balcony exhibiting well bred interest in the proceedings. They had glasses in their hands as if they were toasting the most excitement seen in that part of the world in years. I gave them a rude gesture and drove off leaving them twittering and fluttering like birds who’ve been thrown a handful of seed.

  I was getting to know the route out to Longueville well enough to drive it in my sleep. I pushed the Falcon flat-out. A few solid citizens shook their heads disapprovingly as I passed them and two bikies gave me an outrider escort for a mile for the hell of it. The day was dying and a soft, limp night settling down on the suburbs and bills when I reached Longueville but I was thinking of Ailsa and wailing sirens and it seemed to be raining blood to me.

  13

  Tickener’s Holden was standing around the corner from the clinic and half a block back along the street. Across from it were two unmarked cars carrying four men who could only have been cops. I pulled up behind Tickener. Grant Evans got out of his car and walked across to the Holden. He got on the front seat and I got in the back. I sat down next to a small, relaxed looking guy who wore a Zapata moustache and an intelligent expression. Evans spoke first.

  “You didn’t tell me that the press were in on it, Cliff, I could get my arse kicked for this.”

  “You won’t,” I assured him. “The fish are too big and too many people are going to be scared shitless to worry about you. You’ll do yourself a lot of good. Oh, by the way, Harry Tickener, Inspector Grant Evans.” They shook hands warily. Tickener half-turned and nodded at the photographer sitting next to me who was fiddling with what looked like twenty different camera attachments. “Colin Jones,” he said. Evans stuck out his hand and Colin gave it a quick shake and went back to his cameras. He’d been a man of few words when I’d met him as a reconnaissance cameraman in Malaya, and he hadn’t changed a bit.

  “This should be right up your street, Colin,” I said. “Here’s how it stands. I think Rory Costello’s in there getting a face job. There are legitimate patients in there too which poses a bit of a problem and there’s plenty of muscle. A boy named Bruno who can handle himself and at least two others who can dish it out. And Costello of course, but I imagine he’s out of action. He was bandaged up like a mummy when I saw him, if it was him.”

  “It better be,” Evans growled. “Weapons?”

  “Didn’t see any but sure to be some. The guy on the gate is almost certainly armed and he’s our first problem.”

  “That booth looks like a fortress,” said Tickener.

  “It’s pretty formidable,” I agreed, “but the problem is that it relays pictures and alarms to the main building. The fence is electrified and there are TV cameras about.”

  “So it’s no go to divert the guard and go over the fence?” Evans leered at me. “What are we going to do, parachute in?”

  Jones spoke up. “Have you been inside the fence and the building, Cliff?”

  I said I had. “Did you hear any constant background noise of any kind?” All I’d heard was a lot of talk and a lot of ringing inside my head after I’d been hit. I tried to remember the feeling of being inside the place, lobby, corridors and rooms. “No,” I said, “No background noise.” “Any flickering in the lights?” Jones asked. I thought about it. “No.”

  “Then it’s no problem.” He slung a camera around his neck. “No generator, they’re working off the mains supply — amateurs. You knock out the supply lines temporarily or permanently and in you go.”

  “Is it hard to do?” I asked.

  “No, a cinch, I can do it.”

  “Can you now?” said Evans thoughtfully.

  The cameraman smiled at him. “I was trained in Her Majesty’s armed service, Inspector. It’s easy if you know how, I’d need a hammer and a couple of big nails and a screwdriver.”

  “I’d have them over the back,” said Tickener. “I’m building a shack up the Hawkesbury.”

  “All right for some,” Evans muttered as the reporter got out of the car, went round the back, dropped the hatch and started a few seconds of noisy rummaging. My nerves screamed at the clanking of metal on metal and I was anxious to be moving. Evans sat there shaking his head gently and looking resignedly out into the night. Tickener came up with the nails and tools and put them on the bonnet of the car.

  “Assuming we get in OK,” Evans said, “how do you read it from there, Cliff? No warrant, no nothing.”

  “They’ll react. They’ll shoot, I think. That lets you in.”

  “True, true. Shooting’s illegal.” Evans began to enjoy himself. “Right, I’ll leave two men in a car outside to mop up or follow us in if need be. The rest of us will go in — you, me, Varson, Tickener and Jones. The objective is Costello, right?”

  “Right,” I said, “and Brave if he’s there. I think he will be.”

  I had my own thoughts about others who might be there and it probably wasn’t fair not to tell Grant about them, but I had plans about what to do if Bryn and his mate got within pistol distance and I didn’t want any interference.

  Jones spoke again. “Do you want the blackout permanent or temporary?”

  “Temporary,” said Evans, “I want to see who I’m arresting.”

  “OK.” The photographer deposited his equipment carefully on the seat and got out of the car. “Let’s find the power line. Oh, I forgot to tell you, if it’s right outside the front gate we’re stuffed.”

  Evans, Tickener and I got out of the car and followed Colin. Evans beckoned to the car behind, a man got out and jogged to catch up with us. He had a quick confab with Evans, ran back to the car to fill his colleagues in, and was out of breath when he caught up with us again. We set off to pick up the perimeter of the clinic at the north end. Evans’ offsider was a big, bald-headed man with a bald man’s look of hostility at the world. From the bulge under his coat I guessed he was carrying a fair sized gun and I was glad that he was on my side. I assumed that Grant was adequately armed, I had my. 38, fully loaded, in my jacket pocket.

  We walked around the fence with Jones looking up and down every few yards. After walking the full length of one side of the block and half of the next, Jones stopped and clicked his tongue softly.

  “This is it, a cinch.”

  He pulled his belt from his pants, took off his jacket, put the nails and screwdriver in his pants pocket and shoved the hammer inside his waistband. He buckled the belt on the first hole and looped it over his shoulder. The lamp post stood about twelve feet back from the fence and it was a good twenty feet up to the cross beam. Jones whistled to himself as he shimmied up the post using hands, knees and feet like a south sea islander after coconuts. He reached the cross beam and slung the belt over it. He steadied himself by hanging onto the strap and began to hammer and probe the electrical equipment. Two minutes later he slid down the pole. He was carefully holding a piece of wire in his hand when he hit the ground.

  “Always plenty of spare wire up there,” he said cheerfully. “This is all set up. One pull and the lights go out all over Europe, another tug and they go on again. You trip a switch and untrip it, see?”
>
  “I believe him,” I said to Evans who grunted. The other cop spoke for the first time since he’d joined us. “How do we handle it? Do we go through the fence or the gate?” It was a pretty good question. Evans looked at Jones. “You’re the one with all the ideas at the moment, what d’you think?” Jones paused, he was probably thinking of his compound-storming in Malaya and he’d been in on some tough ones.

  “The gate’s the easiest. The guard’s going to be as blind as a bat when the lights blow. Should be easy to grab him and keep him quiet. We can get the gates open and drive in. Of course, someone’ll have to stay here and do the pulling.”

  “That’ll be you, Ron,” Evans said to the cop, then he waved a hand at us. “Sorry, Hardy, Jones, Tickener — Ron Varson, rough as guts.”

  We nodded at him. Varson didn’t look happy with his second fiddle job but he took Evans’ description of him as a compliment and looked grimly determined. Evans was in control of it now. He issued his instructions briskly and authoritatively. We checked our watches and agreed on lights-out time and three of us headed back towards the gate. Varson stood holding the wire and looking up to where it connected with the switches. He still looked a bit unhappy with the job, as though he was about to flush himself down a giant lavatory.