Personal survival with a few basic principles intact is the bottom line. The threat to me had been real, but precisely how far Christenson and his offsider would have gone was hard to gauge. Christenson certainly hadn’t looked anxious, but his type runs on confidence and they have it and use it so much they can become insensitive to hostile forces. My involvement had concerned him enough to get Lettie to play a part and to bring his enforcer along. Men like Christenson see life as a series of deals, wins and losses, debts and credits. To some extent tonight he’d exposed himself, showed some of his cards with no result. He wouldn’t be happy.
I tried to comfort myself with these thoughts as I drove, not forgetting to watch out for tails and observers. Nothing. It was twenty minutes before I realised that I was driving towards my place in Glebe, not Oldcastle’s flat in Dover Heights. I didn’t want to spend another night on his couch, hear his catarrhal cough in the morning and eat high-fibre cereal for breakfast with the TV on. I wanted a tuna and mayonnaise sandwich and my own cut- price Scotch, my own bed and books, radio in the morning with black coffee and toast with butter. I phoned in, was told everything was quiet and left the night watch to one of Pete’s men. I circled a few blocks in Glebe until I was sure I hadn’t attracted a following and did two passes of my house, looping down towards the water and back around until I was sure there was no-one hanging around out front or in the back. If there was anyone there they were good and deserved their chance.
I went into the house and tried to enjoy the anticipated familiar things. I couldn’t. All I could think of was Christenson’s statement: ‘You and your dog mate’re in for a surprise, Hardy. A very big surprise.’
What the hell did that mean?
Two more days to get through. I told Oldcastle what had happened at the Berlin Club. He identified Christenson’s companion as a Detective Constable Fraser. ‘That man should never have been allowed in the police force. He’s vicious. I don’t know about him killing people, but he’s marked a few one way and another, women as well as men.’
‘What d’you think Christenson meant about a surprise?’
Oldcastle shook his head. ‘No idea. All I know is I should have spoken up a lot sooner. You know what worries me, Hardy? There must be a hell of a lot of people who know about this-other police, politicians, journalists, blokes in your game. And they keep quiet. Why?’
I studied him. The one night on the booze was just that, one night. He was perfectly composed again now- clean-shaven, collar and tie on in the morning when he didn’t have to go anywhere, polished Oxfords. He was preparing himself for an ordeal in the only way he knew, by following routines, keeping up appearances. My respect for him had grown, but his limitations were obvious-a lack of imagination, a wish to remain apart from the real current of life. It might make him a compelling witness or a feeble one, hard to tell.
I answered his question in an offhand way saying that people worked their own territory and didn’t look for trouble. He shook that off like a dog shedding water.
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘It’s worse than that. It’s fear. Fear! Citizens afraid of the very people sworn to protect them. What could be more screwed up than that?’
An idealist, I thought. Dead dangerous.
We got through the next two days without incident. Oldcastle told me that he had all his physical evidence in a safety deposit box in a city bank and he made arrangements to call there immediately before he was due to front the enquiry.
‘It’s better you don’t know which bank,’ he said. ‘No one knows except me.’
‘Suits me,’ I said. ‘Will we be able to carry it all?’
He patted a battered briefcase he kept in the room he called his study. It contained a desk, a filing cabinet filled with copies of National Geographic and Australian Geographer and several bookcases holding his collection of travel books and biographies. I knew what was in the filing cabinet because I’d sneaked a look; in fact I’d done a fairly thorough search of the place at odd times when opportunities presented. When you’re guarding someone like Oldcastle, you’re also guarding what he knows and what he’s got. As far as I could tell, he had nothing significant in the flat.
We ate something from the microwave and had a glass of light beer each. It was a warm night and Oldcastle seemed to enjoy the drink. None of Pete’s boys were around; there’d been absolutely no signs of any trouble and I was going to stick by Oldcastle right up until he walked through the door to the enquiry room.
He got up to make coffee and I poured another couple of inches of beer. ‘What’re you going to do when this is all over?’
He spooned the coffee into the filter. ‘If everything goes well, Christenson and all the other bent bastards’ll be off the force and in gaol. I’ll go back to work.’
It was hard to believe that he was serious, but everything in his body language and manner suggested that he was. I sipped the last of the beer and was looking forward to the coffee. Oldcastle would do a crossword and listen to music. I’d get on with reading Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil and maybe have a Cutty Sark before bed.
A knock on the door startled me out of this pleasant anticipation. Oldcastle lived a lonely life and, apart from a neighbour dropping in to discuss something about the maintenance of the block and a misdirected pizza deliverer, there hadn’t been any callers. I waved Oldcastle back towards the kitchen, unshipped my. 38 and moved to a position beside the door. You don’t stand in front of the door and you don’t put your eye to the spyglass in these situations, not if you value your life. You keep a few bricks between you and whoever is outside.
‘Who is it?’ I said.
‘It’s Mick Gordon, Cliff. Open up. I have to talk to Marty.’
Gordon’s voice carried well and Oldcastle heard it. His pleasure was evident. ‘Mick,’ he said. ‘Let him in, Cliff. It’ll be good to see him.’
It was the first time this cold, aloof man had used my name. I was touched in an odd way. I put the gun away and unlocked the door. Gordon came in, eyeing me warily. He wore a sports shirt and slacks, smelled faintly of Scotch and was carrying a newspaper. His shirt was sweat-damp under the arms and in front, but it was warm and the flat was three levels up and Gordon was a little overweight.
Oldcastle stuck out his hand and the two men shook. ‘How are you, Mick? Jeez, it’s good to see you. No other bugger… Well, never mind. I’ve got the coffee on. Is there any of that beer left, Cliff?’
I shook my head. Gordon grinned at me. ‘Bloody wowser doesn’t even keep a few cans in the fridge. Can you believe it? No, coffee’d be fine, mate. In a minute. Look, there’s something I’ve got to talk over with you.’
‘Sit down, Mick,’ Oldcastle said.
Gordon reached into the pocket of his shirt and took out his cigarettes. ‘You know me, Marty. Can’t talk without smoking and I know how you feel about smoking inside.’ He put a cigarette between his lips and moved towards the open door to the balcony, raising the lighter as he went. Oldcastle followed him.
‘What is it, Mick?’
Looking back, I should have spotted it, but it all seemed so natural at the time-the smile, the cigarette, the lighter, the casual, familiar gesture. They stepped out onto the balcony. The curtain was drawn back, the room light was on. I didn’t hear the shot but the glass door shattered and blood, bone and brain matter splattered against the wall. I shouted uselessly and jumped forward, knocking over a chair. When I got to the balcony Gordon was standing over Oldcastle, who was lying against the door with half of his head blown away.
‘I told him not to do it,’ Gordon said.
He raised the lighter and lit his cigarette. He took a long drag and blew the smoke out in a steady stream. He looked at me. His expression was half-sorrowful, half-defiant and I knew what Christenson had meant by a surprise. ‘I can give you the names of two senior members of the force and a lawyer who’ll take an oath I was playing cards with them tonight.’
‘Don’t bother,’ I said.
The Brothers
Fabrizio Panella was the middleweight champion of New South Wales for a brief time in the late Seventies. The title didn’t mean much to most people but it meant a lot to Fabrizio for two reasons. One, it got him two major
