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?”
