Master's Mates Page 12

  Montefiore glanced at the .38.

  ‘Don’t even think it,’ I said. ‘You’ve got twenty thousand eight hundred and fifty dollars to come.’

  He sat down next to Fay. ‘It’d be almost worth it, you tricky cunt.’

  Lorrie glanced at me. ‘Can we start, Mr Hardy? I’ve got a busy day.’

  Fay lit another cigarette. The air in the room, already stale and smelly, was thickening. ‘I thought you were going to record this,’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘We’re recording. Let’s start with the bloke’s name. Make it loud and clear.’

  ‘She’s not even listening,’ Fay said.

  Annoyed, I glanced at Lorrie, who was looking distracted. ‘She’ll listen to the tape.’

  ‘I can hear something outside,’ Lorrie said. ‘I—’

  The flimsy door crashed inwards and a man wearing a stocking mask burst through the gap. He had a pistol with a long barrel in his hand and he fired twice quickly, the shots no louder than heavy coughing. I pulled Lorrie to the floor between the first and second reports and Montefiore, who’d been hit somewhere low, reeled towards the gunman, who shot him again, point-blank. I scrabbled across the carpet to the television set, bumped it away stand and all with my shoulder and scooped up the .38, praying that it was loaded. Montefiore had collapsed towards the gunman but was still clutching at him. The gunman squeezed off more wild shots before I had the .38 roughly aligned. I fired twice in his direction but he was already moving, heaving against Montefiore’s bulk, heading for the door. I fired again, but he was gone.

  The air in the room was thick with the smell of cordite and dust from where the bullets had impacted on the walls and ceiling. I coughed and spluttered as I got to my feet, fighting for physical and mental balance. Through the haze I could see that Fay was lying back in her chair, a dark hole in the middle of her forehead. Montefiore lay face down with his hands stretched out like claws, pointing in the direction his killer had taken. Blood from his wounds had surged forward and was trickling towards the shattered door.

  ‘Lorrie?’

  I dived down under the table where I’d pulled her and found her on her back, staring up at the holes that had punched through the Formica. She was breathing, but a dark stain was still spreading across her pale blue blouse.

  17

  THEN it was chaos, ambulances, cops and more cops.

  Fay was dead and Montefiore was close to it. Lorrie had a serious shoulder wound and I was unhurt apart from a pain in the shoulder damaged in my earlier fall downstairs and again in the flat, so all the shit came down on me. I gave them the names of the dead, dying and wounded and my own name. They bagged the .38 and the money and would have taken the tape recorder if they’d found it. Then they hauled me off to College Street, gave me a few minutes to use the toilet and set to work. Detective Inspector Keith Carmichael, forty plus and beefy, was ably assisted by Detective Sergeant Lucille Hammond, lean, dark and keen.

  I agreed to be interviewed without a legal representative present but reserved the right to call one in if I chose. Then I refused to say anything until I established that Lorraine Master’s lawyer and the au pair had been informed and that arrangements were in place to look after the children.

  ‘She’s okay, Hardy,’ Carmichael said. ‘Small calibre flesh wound. No bone damage. Clean exit. Shock and blood loss. That’s it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Montefiore?’

  Carmichael shook his head. ‘Took five rounds to stop him. Small calibre, like I say. He was unlucky, one nicked the aorta.’

  ‘He had some guts. He kept trying.’

  ‘Like you?’ Hammond said.

  I shook my head. It was still early but the adrenaline rush had faded, leaving me worn and tired. ‘No. I just blasted away a couple of times.’

  ‘Scared him off, but,’ Carmichael said.

  ‘If you say so. Anyone see him?’

  Hammond consulted her notebook. ‘Yeah, and lucky for you.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Otherwise it might look like you did it.’

  ‘Right. What did I do with the pistol and the silencer?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not an issue. A couple of people saw a man running along Darling Street not long after the shots. That’d be your shots. Went through Gladstone Park and then . . .’ She closed the notebook.

  Carmichael nodded to her and she switched on the tape recorder and logged the date and time and the names and credentials of those present.

  ‘Okay, Hardy,’ Carmichael said. ‘Let’s hear it.’

  From long established habit, I stuck to the truth as much as I could and tried not to include or exclude anything that might contradict Lorrie’s version. I said that Mrs Master had hired me to investigate the circumstances of her husband’s conviction and that I’d gone to Noumea, met Fay Lewis and Jarrod Montefiore and arranged to pay them money for information back in Sydney. When they asked what the information was, I told them it was the name of an individual they suspected of some involvement.

  ‘And that name was?’ Carmichael asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Fay Lewis knew the name but she was shot before she could tell us.’

  ‘And you’ve no idea?’

  ‘All I know is that someone left a threatening message on my computer soon after my first meeting with Mrs Master and that I was attacked about the same time.’

  Hammond said, ‘Attacked?’

  ‘I was knocked down a set of stairs.’

  From the looks on their faces they would both have been happy to do the same, now or sometime in the future. ‘C’mon, Hardy,’ Carmichael growled, ‘you know more than that.’

  I did, sort of. But there was no chance I’d tell them about Montefiore’s version of the conspiracy to convict Master and the alleged police involvement in getting a big haul of marijuana onto the Australian market. I had no idea whether the story was true, but if it was, a couple of New South Wales cops I knew nothing about weren’t the people to talk to.

  ‘All I know is that an average-sized man, or maybe a tallish woman, wearing dark clothes and a stocking mask killed Fay Lewis and Montefiore and would’ve killed Mrs Master and me except that I got lucky.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Hammond said.

  I shrugged. ‘Ask Mrs Master.’

  Carmichael snuffled and blew his nose. ‘Oh, we will. And we’ll jump through any cracks in your stories.’

  ‘You’d better be careful. She’s a very successful high-powered businesswoman and she’s got a top-flight lawyer.’

  Carmichael blew his nose again and Hammond drew slightly away from him. ‘She’s married to a lowlife.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  She jumped at it. ‘So you’ve met Master? That’s interesting.’

  I hadn’t meant to let that slip, but it wasn’t disastrous. ‘I saw him out at Avonlea after I took this case on.’

  ‘You didn’t know him before that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or Mrs Master?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How well do you know her now?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Carmichael took over. ‘You know what she means. You saved her fucking life, it looks like.’

  ‘And mine, don’t forget. Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘By the way,’ he mocked. ‘She’s down the road in Balmain hospital, but if what you say’s right, she’ll be in some flash private place any minute.’

  Hammond said, ‘Where did the gun come from?’

  ‘It was there.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You knew how to use it.’

  ‘I’ve got one similar. Licensed. But I didn’t have it with me.’

  ‘You weren’t expecting trouble?’

  The air in the interview room was stale and Carmichael was filling it with germs. My chair was hard and my eyes were still stinging from the cordite and plaster dust. ‘Look, I’m getting tired of this. I’
ve been cooperative and tried to tell you everything I know. I’ve got a client in hospital, a car collecting fines and a shoulder that hurts like buggery. I’ve also got a solicitor. Do we wind this up for now, or do I contact him?’

  Carmichael burst into a fusillade of sneezing and coughing and his high colour got even higher. Hammond looked concerned and when he caught his breath he gave her the nod.

  ‘Interview concluded at 11.50 am,’ she said and turned off the machine. ‘And you’re a slippery prick, Mr Hardy.’

  I suppressed a rude reply.

  I took a taxi back to Balmain and found my car sitting on its wheel rims with the tyres slashed. A heavy parking fine and an unroadworthy notice completed the picture. I organised an NRMA tow, watched SOC officers at work behind their blue and white tape up at the flats, and then went into the convenience store for some painkillers and on to the Gladstone for a long overdue drink.

  Over the beer, with the paracetamol cutting in to dull the pain in my shoulder, I reflected on what had happened and how things stood. The police didn’t believe me but there wasn’t much they could do about it. The four thousand dollars plus wasn’t a lot of money, not enough to positively contradict my story. That might change if they found a sizeable amount of the money I’d paid out to Montefiore and Fay in Noumea lying around in their flat, but somehow I doubted they would. Those two were the type to spend it and stash it.

  I’d described the gunman accurately to the police, which is to say hardly at all. The quick look I’d had at him was consistent with what I’d been told about the Noumea mystery man, but it also fitted about eighty per cent of the Australian adult male population. The name was further from our grasp than before. But maybe not completely out of reach. There was a chance that Reg Penny knew it, just a chance. A better than even chance of knowing lay with Stewart Master, but he wasn’t likely to cough it up. The ‘man without a name’ was in Sydney; he knew my car and office and probably my house. Did he know Lorrie? Hard to say.

  I had a second beer and a toasted sandwich and felt more or less composed. I’d left my mobile in the car. I used the hotel’s public phone to call Bryce O’Connor and was put straight through to him.

  ‘This is a mess, Hardy.’

  ‘Could be worse. Lorraine and I could be dead. Or maybe you wouldn’t consider that worse.’

  A pause. ‘I don’t get your meaning.’

  ‘Forget it. I’m stressed. The cops say she’s probably gone from Balmain hospital by now. Where is she?’

  ‘I’m not sure I should tell you. What in God’s name has been going on?’

  ‘I could fill you in, I suppose, if you dropped the outraged manner and cooperated. A very dangerous person is out there. It’s all to do with Stewart Master’s conviction—a cooked-up job. You’re involved at that point. Then there’s my investigation and who knows how wide it could spread? We’ve got a dead man in Noumea and two dead people here in Sydney. And a wounded woman—your client and mine. This goes beyond the legal niceties, Mr O’Connor. Where the fuck is she?’

  ‘She’s in the Cartland private hospital in Bellevue Hill. I thought she should be near her business associates and her children.’

  ‘Very thoughtful. I hope you arranged for security.’

  ‘I did. There’s a guard.’

  ‘Good. Contact him and authorise access for me on proof of identity.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, Bryce, when all this gets sorted out, and it will, I’ll tell how you helped to set Stewart Master up for a gaol stretch he didn’t really earn.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous, but I’ll make the call and Lorraine can deal with you herself. What possessed you to take her to this criminal meeting I can’t imagine. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t report you to whatever sleazy authority supposedly regulates your profession.’

  ‘Nice speech. Good stuff in court, but it sounds like bullshit to me.’

  He hung up. Accusing him was a shot in the dark and I couldn’t tell whether it had struck home or not. He was a smooth one, possibly worth his price whoever paid. I rang the Cartland and was told that Mrs Master was sleeping peacefully. The nurse brought the guard to the phone and he confirmed that O’Connor had rung him. He sounded young, alert and American.

  ‘Please ask when it’d be possible for me to see her,’ I said. I heard some murmuring and then he came back on the line.

  ‘They say later today, around five o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll see you then. You are . . .?’

  ‘Hank Bachelor. Mr Hardy, what exactly is the threat here?’

  ‘Look out for a guy in a stocking mask with a silenced pistol,’ I said.

  The Cartland was as unlike the Victorian piles that house most of our public hospitals as it was possible to be. In fact, with its tinted glass and white bricks and landscaping, it reminded me of the Atlas gym. Lorrie was in a private room of course, on the third floor, no doubt with a view.

  Hank Bachelor had the size and the physical presence for his job and the boredom that kind of work entails hadn’t yet taken its toll on him. He watched my approach carefully with his hand on something nestling in his lap. I stopped a few metres away and said my name.

  He nodded and I went closer. He put his piece of equipment on the chair and stood. He shook my hand vigorously, told me that ‘the lady’ was looking forward to seeing me, and that he aspired to be a private enquiry agent himself. He was doing the TAFE course.

  ‘Interesting work, huh?’

  ‘It can be, but there’s also a lot of this sort of sitting around and waiting.’

  He looked crestfallen but only for a moment. He had that buoyant Yank attitude they graft onto them somewhere in their formative years. ‘Not looking for an assistant, I suppose?’

  ‘You’ve got a job.’

  ‘I could moonlight.’

  At a guess, he was in his mid-twenties and about the same size and weight I was at his age. His dark hair was held back in a short, tight ponytail and he wore jeans, a long-sleeved navy T-shirt and Doc Martens. I nodded at the object on the chair.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Tazer, man.’

  ‘Illegal in this country.’

  ‘So’s marijuana and obscene language.’

  I laughed and gave him my card. ‘You never know, Hank. You never know. I might be able to use you. Where’re you from?’

  ‘Where d’you want?’

  ‘Not Texas.’

  ‘I’m not from Texas. Go right in, Mr Hardy.’

  Lorraine Master was sitting up against a nest of snowy pillows. Her complexion, which I’d thought of as olive or something close, was several shades lighter. Her features were drawn and I could see lines I hadn’t seen before. Her dark eyes, distorted by the anaesthetic, looked all the bigger in her slightly pinched face and she actually looked more attractive, like a rather bigger Edith Piaf. She wore a white hospital gown and she tried to hold her arms out to me. The heavy dressing on her right shoulder stopped the gesture and she winced at the involuntary movement.

  ‘Easy, Lorrie,’ I said. ‘Jesus, I’m sorry I got you into this.’

  Her eyes sparkled through the dulling effect of the painkillers. ‘Fuck you, Hardy, you’re sexist. Get it right. I got you into it.’

  18

  SHE told me that the police were giving her twenty-four hours to recover from her wound before interviewing her and that O’Connor would be present.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she said.

  ‘We had a small falling out over the phone. I accused him of helping to set Stewart up.’

  ‘Christ, did he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was trying to pressure him so I could get to see you. It was hard to judge his reaction. Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Thanks. I suppose you’ve been shot lots of times.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I meant—’

  She reached for my hand with her left
and held it. ‘I know what you mean. I don’t have any problem with the police. Tell me what you told them and I’ll tell them the same.’

  ‘Don’t—’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Cliff. I won’t make it word for word.’

  Her hand was cool and smooth and I was glad to be holding it. ‘I’m having trouble saying the right thing. I know you’re not stupid, Lorrie. I’m overprotective, I guess.’

  ‘No you’re not. You saved my life. I’d say you’re exactly protective enough.’

  We sat in silence there for a few minutes then we both started talking. We agreed that it all happened too quickly for us to be scared or to record more than fleeting impressions of the gunman. Our impressions matched: medium height and build, dark clothes, decisive action coming in and going out.

  She wasn’t sentimental about Fay Lewis and Montefiore. She hadn’t known them and hadn’t liked what she saw of them. ‘Would he know that Fay hadn’t told us anything?’

  I shrugged. ‘Dunno. Could he have heard from outside? Was the window by the door open?’

  ‘I heard him.’

  ‘That’s right. So maybe he knows Fay didn’t say his name. You can probably hear your own name better than any other sound.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re safe? Why the guard then?’

  ‘Hank? Don’t you like him?’

  ‘He’s sweet. Answer the question.’

  ‘At a guess, he’s tapped my phone. So he knows about you and he’s known about me from early on. I don’t know how.’

  ‘Yes you do. O’Connor.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘There’s that pissy sound again. Should I sack him?’

  ‘No. We have to keep tabs on all the players. You have to tell him to get me another session with Stewart.’

  Our hands separated and she said, ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m betting this bit of business will have had an effect on him. I’ve got the tape of our voices and the door breaking and the shots.’

  She lay back on the pillows and a wave of fatigue and worry seemed to wash over her. ‘I’m tired, Cliff. Could you make sure that Britt’s got the children safe and okay? She can bring them in later and hire some more help. As for what you’re saying about Stewart, I wouldn’t be too sure.’