Wet Graves Read online

  I retreated towards the boatshed, paying out the nylon line. At two points I rigged up pulleys and passed the line through them. Tricky work with stiff, cold fingers and hard, unyielding nylon. The line was barely long enough; I had to crouch near the front of the shed almost in one of the circles of light, and hope the guards didn’t see me. I was sweating when I took up my position, and one leg was cramping from creeping and scuttling along. The guards were leaning against the jetty rail with their hands in their pockets. They didn’t seem to be talking but they weren’t super-alert. Bored, almost certainly, and probably tired.

  I took a deep breath, surveyed the ground I’d have to cover to get to the jetty, and jerked the line. Nothing happened. I swore and pulled it again, putting some weight into the tug. I almost lost balance as the line slackened in my hands. I got ready to run. There was a moment’s quiet and then a grinding crash as the freewheeling Porsche slammed into the back of the next car. That must have been one of the locked ones, with its alarm set. A bonus. The alarm started to whoop and the guards shouted and ran towards the noise. I let them pass me and sprinted for the jetty. Any second now people would come out onto the houseboat’s deck to see what the fuss was. But the natural place for them to look first was up, not down along the jetty. I broke the world record for running on planks, took the gangplank in two strides and flattened myself against a wall of superstructure on the harbour side. I stood in the darkness waiting for the confusion on the deck to reach a useful pitch. Clark Island was eight hundred metres away across the water. For no good reason I remembered the story Robert Hughes told about the place in The Fatal Shore. Lieutenant Clark used the island to grow vegetables, but the convicts rowed out and stole them. Sydney hasn’t changed.

  10

  I thought I’d cause some alarm, stir the possum, but what I got was panic. Your illegal gambler these days must be a spineless type compared with the men and women in Perce Galea and Robin Askin’s day. They’d talk to the cops, buy them drinks, swap racing tips and go off to the lockup as if it was all part of the fun. Mind you, those were wide-open days when MPs and magistrates winked and nodded so much they looked as if they all had palsy and tics.

  As far as I could see from poking my head around the corner, this lot all wanted to abandon ship. I could hear persuading voices and protesting ones; voices were raised in anger and threats were uttered. A motor boat came up in response to a hail from the houseboat. Two motor boat types in jeans and padded jackets came on board to back up a man in a dinner suit who was talking about money.

  With the class of the company dropping, I felt safe in moving from my position along to a doorway that led inside the houseboat. Just inside the door were steps, going up and down. I went up a flight and came to what appeared to be a controls room. It featured a console with blinking lights, a navigator’s desk, several office chairs and windows giving a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view from a point about six metres above the water. I went down the steps and came to a short, narrow corridor with a door at the end of it. I held my shoulder against the door so it couldn’t open and peered through a window in the shape of a porthole into the gambling room.

  The place was about ten notches up from the one behind the coffee shop in Leichhardt. The bar was a thing of beauty—polished wood and steel, padded front, velvet-covered stools, all the trimmings. The socialising part of the room was lit by chandeliers: discreet, hooded lights hung over the tables and picked up the deep, rich colours in the paintings and tapestries on the walls. It should have been a scene of relaxed self-indulgence; instead, it looked like a children’s playground after a rainstorm. Chairs had been knocked over and glasses of wine spilt, and cards and chips were scattered across the green baize surfaces. The barman and a couple of dealers had kept their places but they were frozen, not touching any of the accoutrements in case the clients came back and protested that they’d been nobbled. A few last wisps of blue-grey smoke were drifting slowly towards a fan outlet. A classy joint, catering for the smoke-sensitive.

  In the far corner of the room a blue velvet curtain hung over an opening. Another gambling room perhaps, or executive space? I could get up adjacent to that area by opening the door at my shoulder. I had to move; a few people wandered back into the room, no doubt with stories of a crashed Porsche and a terrorist. They wouldn’t find the brick immediately in the dark, but it wouldn’t take too long. I eased back and opened the door. The man in the next stage of the corridor was surprised to see me, which gave me a tiny advantage. I needed it because he was big and he wanted to stop me. He said something impolite and aimed a punch at my head, but I’d already moved the head and started a punch of my own. I got him low and hard. He granted and sagged and I hit him again on the back of the neck. He went down and fumbled in his jacket pocket. I used my knee to bang his head against the wan, and he stopped doing anything.

  I stepped over him and took out my .38. I was pretty sure the guy on the floor hadn’t been reaching for cigarettes. A door faced me at the end of the passage; it had a glass panel in it and a face appeared there. I pointed the gun and the face vanished. Another door was positioned to open into the space I’d seen from the porthole—the room behind the velvet curtain. What the hell? I thought. I’ve flattened one of them and I’ve got a gun. I’m tough. Someone’ll have to talk to me. I opened the door and stepped over the bulkhead.

  The room was dark. Then, suddenly, it was flooded with light. I was half-blinded and things happened in a fast blur: a man rose up from the floor, pointed a camera at me and took a series of pictures. Someone came from behind me and chopped the gun from my hand with a blow to my upper arm. I swung a punch with the other hand and the photographer got a shot of that, too. The punch ended in the empty air and I lost balance. It only took a good shove to deck me. I went down hard and felt solid boots hit me in the ribs on both sides, with near-precision.

  “Not the head.”

  I recognised the voice and turned my face towards it but a hand ground my nose and chin down hard into the carpet. My arms were brought together behind my back, and I heard the snap of metal on metal.

  “Jackson?” I mumbled into the carpet.

  “Right first time, Hardy. Why is it you’re always on the floor when we meet?”

  I tried to scramble up, and a strong arm helped me by pulling on the handcuffs.

  “Easy, Arch,” Jackson said. “Don’t mark him. And watch his feet. He’s a tricky bugger.”

  A short, strongly built man pushed me back against the wall. He grabbed a heavy swivel chair and used it to pin me there. I spat grit and fluff from my mouth and, with my vision more or less restored, I looked around the room. It was set up for very private card games—antique table with an expensive cloth, adjustable chairs, shaded light. There was a bar, smaller and less fancy than in the other room, but equipped for most tastes. The men in the room came in a variety of shapes and sizes: Rhino Jackson had changed a lot in the twenty-five years since he’d given me the quick count. He had been slight then, with quick, jerky movements. He was more like thickset the last time I’d seen him, a few years back, and since then he’d put on flesh uniformly from his neck down. The extra weight gave him a solid, immovable look. His tightly curled, gingery hair was now almost entirely grey. I didn’t recognise the photographer, who stood fiddling with the camera, or the guy Jackson had called Arch, the one who’d applied the handcuffs. The other man in the room, sitting at the card table with a cigar going, was Barry Tobin, formerly Detective Inspector Barry Tobin of the New South Wales police.

  I’d had two run-ins with Tobin, both unpleasant. On a scale with my best friend at number one and worst enemy at number ten, Tobin would come in at around eight.

  Tobin was gross, no other word for him. Not very tall, he was ninety per cent blubber. The dark hair he’d been so vain about when he was young had gone, and the chief colour in his face was ruby red. But—unless the food and brandy had done to his brain what it had done to his body—he was smart.

/>   He puffed on his cigar and tapped it carefully into an enamel ashtray on the table, taking care not to get ash on his three-piece suit. Still a dandy. “You were pretty easy to flatten, Hardy,” he said.

  I blinked. “Eye problem.”

  “I know, I know. Let’s have a look at the pics.”

  The photographer handed him some Polaroids. Tobin held them towards the light. He laughed; the sound came out breathless and strangled. “Look at this, Rhino. He’s blinking like Dicky Harrison. Remember Dicky, Rhino? That flasher we used to pick up and have some fun with? He used to blink like that. Always pissed, of course. Are you pissed, Cliff?”

  I shook my head. Tobin always loved to hear himself talk.

  “Can’t have that,” Tobin said. “We’ll all have a drink in a minute.”

  Jackson opened the door and looked into the passage. “Christ, he did a good job on Kenny. Did you get that?”

  The photographer nodded. “Bet your arse. Show you in a minute.”

  “What the hell is this?” I gave the chair a shove but paleface shoved back.

  “Easy, Arch,” Jackson said. “Gently with him.”

  You’ve met Arch before, Hardy. Realise that?”

  I looked at Arch but didn’t recognise him. “In church, maybe?” I said.

  Tobin smiled. “Love a joke, don’t you? No, he turned over your dump in Darlinghurst. Gave you a tap on the head, I understand.”

  “And pinched a photograph.”

  “That’s right. Someone told us you had a picture with Rhino in it. Relic of the old days. We thought it’d help hook you if it went missing. Smart?”

  I didn’t reply. I could’ve said something about my damaged pizza but I hadn’t the heart. It was smart. I was hooked.

  Jackson said, “Let’s go up to the wheelhouse, Barry.”

  Tobin heaved himself from the chair.

  “If you mean the ponced-up cockpit with the dials and switches, you’ll never make it up the stairs,” I said.

  Tobin gave voice to another of his half-asphyxiated laughs. “I’ll make it up, Hardy. Question is, will you make it down?”

  The photographer went away; Arch moved the chair, and he, Jackson, Tobin and I went out into the passage. Arch picked my gun up off the floor before we went. The man I’d knocked out was stirring but looking very sick. Tobin touched him on the shoulder. “Go and get a drink, Kenny. You did fine.”

  “Shit.” Kenny said. “Do I get another go at him?”

  “We’ll see.”Jackson said.

  “Pity about the Porsche.” I said.

  Tobin paused before easing himself through the next doorway. “What?”

  “I think I totalled a Porsche out there. Did some damage to a Merc too.”

  Tobin’s face flushed to the colour of a ripe plum. His breath came in short spurts as he fought for control. “That’s just a matter of money. That can be put right.”

  Arch prodded me forward and we went through the door, along the passage and up the steps to the wheelhouse. We went slowly because Tobin took it one step at a time. I could hear sounds coming from the other side of the houseboat and from onshore—a couple of engines running, some urgent talk and the clink of glasses.

  “Sorry to spoil your party,” I said.

  Tobin stopped. Answering me gave him a chance to catch his breath and also to hear the sound he loved, that of his own voice. “Party’s not spoiled, Cliff. Dismiss that thought from your mind.We’ve got very good people on the job out there. They’ll smooth things over.”

  “What thoughts should I have on my mind? Apart from hoping your ticker gives out next step?”

  “Oh, you might think about Beni Lenko and Didi Steller and the mystery witness. Yeah, try those thoughts on for size.”

  “That won’t take long. I don’t know anything about them.”

  Tobin didn’t reply. We trooped through to the wheelhouse, which looked even more elaborate and digitalised when Jackson turned on the light. Then he pointed to a chair bolted to the floor in front of one of the devices with dials and switches. “Put him in the chair, Arch. Cuffs through the back. That’s it. You can take a break now, mate. Call you if we need you.”

  Arch left. “Not a great talker, Arch,” I said.

  Tobin wheezed as he sat down out of kicking distance to my right. He pulled an ashtray towards him and shaped the end of his cigar. Jackson stood on the other side of the room. He fiddled with some switches. “Arch doesn’t need to be a talker, Hardy, but you do. I asked you to think about Beni Lenko and Didi Steller.”

  “And I told you that all I know about them is what I read in the papers.”

  “Which was?”

  “Come on, Tobin. What is this—the Quiz Kids?”

  “Humour me.”

  “We’re going to be in trouble if I need to wipe my nose.”

  Jackson wound a handle and a window slid open. “I told you he was a smartarse, Barry.”

  “Oh, I knew that. Do you mind telling me what the fuck you’re doing?”

  “The smoke,” Jackson said.

  “Close it! I like to fill a room with smoke. Hardy?”

  I sighed. “Didi Steller hired Lenko to hit her rich husband. Lenko did a good job. Overcome with remorse, Didi killed herself with sleeping pills. Beni only got half his fee and was dumb enough to talk about it. So he got charged with murder.”

  Tobin nodded. “Mistrial, first up.”

  “Pity,” I said.

  “Especially for you,” Jackson said.

  “That’s what I was coming to see you about, Rhino. I understand my name got mentioned by someone the cops are keeping under wraps. And you couldn’t be found to throw any light on the matter.”

  “Did you help to set up the hit?” Tobin said.

  “Me? Set up a hit? In your case I might think about it. Otherwise, no.”

  Tobin and Jackson exchanged a satisfied look which puzzled me.

  “Good,” Tobin said.

  “Did I say something right? How about Rhino saying something?”

  “Like what?” Jackson coughed on the words. He really didn’t like the smoke. I didn’t care for it too much myself, but there was always the chance that Tobin might smoke himself to death right there and then.

  “You knew Lenko pretty well. I wouldn’t be surprised if you put him away a time or two. And then you probably saw him again when you went inside yourself.”

  “Just for interest,” Tobin said, “have you ever been inside, Hardy?”

  “Remand. Long Bay. Six weeks. About one per cent of what you’ll get one of these days.”

  “I doubt it,” Tobin said.

  There was a quiet knock at the door. Jackson opened it and the photographer came in carrying a video camera. “Top stuff,” he said.

  Tobin beckoned him across. The photographer pressed a button on the camera, and they put their heads close together to watch the small screen. Tobin’s wheezy chuckle would have gone over well in the tunnel of horrors. He waved to Jackson, who shook his head. “Just so long as it’s what we need.”

  “Don’t be a spoilsport, Rhino,” Tobin said. When Jackson didn’t react he jerked his thumb at me. “Show him how he looks in action.”

  The photographer brought the camera across and pressed the button. I saw myself in the corridor just after I’d come through the door. The camera must have been mounted high; it caught Kenny’s reaction, and I saw I’d made a mistake when I thought I’d got him by surprise. He was more than ready. So ready that he telegraphed and slowed his punch, making it easy for me. Still, I looked pretty good in there, and I’m sure the coup de grâce wasn’t in the script.

  “Nice bit of work with the knee,” Tobin said.

  I nodded. “I thought so at the time. I see it a bit differently now; I don’t think Kenny was expecting the bee.”

  Tobin ground out his cigar butt. “Maybe not, but you can’t always plan things down to the last detail. It wouldn’t be Kenny’s first king hit. Now,” he reached into his
pocket and took out the Polaroids, “you don’t look quite so good in these.”

  The photographer showed me the pictures; he strayed closer than he should have. I looked—a man with a crazed look in his face was blinking and waving a gun around that looked to be the size of a howitzer, good angle—but I didn’t give the photographs my full attention. When I was sure he was in range I swung my right foot hard into the photographer’s knee. He screamed, dropped the photographs and went down hard, whimpering. He scrambled up and hobbled towards me with the video camera held high. Jackson sprang forward, snatched the camera with one hand and gave the photographer a rabbit punch with the other. He went down again.

  “It’s not your night, sport,” I said.

  Jackson put the camera and pictures on the navigation desk and snapped his fingers at the man on the floor. “Out,” he said. “Go and have a drink.”

  I grinned. ‘With Kenny.”

  The photographer shot me an evil look and limped out Tobin lit another cigar. His amused calm worried me more than Jackson’s nervous energy. I looked around as best I could, immobilised as I was in the chair. There was nothing much to see; we were twenty feet above the water; the lights of Darling Point looked a million miles away.

  Tobin puffed his cigar. “Tight spot, Cliff.”

  “I admit I’m puzzled … Barry.”

  “What about scared?”

  “Should I be? You haven’t hurt me yet. I’d say I was winning, head to head.”

  “You don’t know what the game is. Let’s hear it, Rhino.”