“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
