screw things up nicely. A pair of wraparound sunglasses wasn’t much of a disguise. One garden looks much the same as another to me, but I had to admit this was a nice set-up. Everything that was supposed to be green was, and there were no weeds in the beds that had a good covering of bark and chip mulch.
The lawns were neatly manicured; the bowling green was like velvet with just a few brownish patches that a man was working on with a light spray. He was short and stocky, not Van Kep. Tennis courts, I do know something about. The club had two grass courts and three artificial surfaces, all in top condition. One net was up on a grass court and a middle-aged man and one somewhat younger were playing a strenuous, skilful game. I found myself watching and wishing I could play. The younger man hit a strong, double-handed volley and raised his right fist in triumph.
I’ve always been fascinated by left-handed, two-fisted players. The breed simply did not exist in my younger days. There were elegant left-handers like Mervyn Rose and powerhouse lefties like Laver, but I never saw or heard of a two-handed hitter until Pancho Segura came out here as a professional in the ‘50s. I read about him but couldn’t afford the price of a ticket to Kramer’s circus. Since then, of course, they hit two-handed off both sides, orthodox and molly-dook. The only thing they don’t do double-fisted is serve. This guy was good. He hit wicked top spin off both wings which was better suited to a hard court than grass, but still gave his opponent trouble. Enough of them sat up, however, to give him a chance. He was a slicer, especially on the backhand, an effective weapon on grass.
I was watching from a distance and having difficulty tearing myself away. The leftie whipped a shot across court and looked stunned as it missed its mark. He’d broken a string. He slammed the racquet down and trotted towards a sports bag beside the court and closer to me. He jerked the bag open and I could see the words ‘White City Tennis City’ stencilled boldly on the side. He pulled out a racquet, tested its tension by banging his fist on it, and looked briefly in my direction before skipping back onto the court.
I shielded my face by adjusting the sunglasses, turned away and moved off. I didn’t think he’d seen me but it was possible. I didn’t know him, but everything about him-the thickening waistline, the expensive haircut, the moustache, the Andrew Agassi-style racquet- shrieked cop.
‘Three all,’ the older man called.
‘Right. Your serve.’
I hoped the minder was too intent on the game to pay me any attention. If so, it was a break. He was busy. Three games more to play at least.
On the fence around the courts was a diagram under perspex of the layout of the grounds, complete with a ‘You are here’ arrow. I located the ‘Gardener’s cottage’ and set off briskly. There was no sign of Van Kep at any of the obvious places where work was being done so it was a fair assumption he was bludging close to home.
The cottage was a very scaled-down version of the main building: single-storey, sandstone, with some creeper on it, iron roof, verandah running along one side and the back, view of the water. Transplanted into Northbridge proper it’d be worth four hundred grand. Not a bad spot for someone with immunity from prosecution and a good story to tell to hole up in. I circled the place, approached to within a few metres of the back door and took cover behind a shrub. I wondered if Van Kep was getting paid for his gardening job. That led to thoughts of his previous employment and what Claudia had told me. A mosquito buzzed near my ear and I almost slapped at it. Sergeant Delaney would have had my balls for that in Malaya. I realised that I was jealous. Ridiculous. I’d been to bed with the woman once and she’d fucked Van Kep as a tactical move. And everything about that made me angry.
I unshipped the. 38, carried it low beside my leg, and moved quickly up to the back of the cottage to a covered, bricked area. A screen door stood open, fastened to the wall. I opened the back door and walked straight into a small, neat kitchen. I had the pistol higher now, but none of that fancy, sweeping, cop stuff you see on television. You’re likely to knock something off a shelf or get caught up in the curtains that way. The kitchen was empty. I went quietly in the direction of soft voices and other sounds and found myself looking into a sitting room- blinds drawn against the mid-afternoon light, the strong, sweet waft of marijuana smoke, the old, friendly, familiar smell of wine.
A long, pale, lean figure wearing nothing but a black G-string was stretched out on a couch in front of a large TV set. On the screen three figures were caught in a harsh but uncertain light. They were on a bed made up with black sheets and white pillows. A man wearing a black eye mask was kneeling on the bed rubbing his penis over the face of a kneeling female who looked to be about ten years old. He was naked. She wore a blue and white checked school uniform. Behind the man a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen was stroking his penis, inducing an erection. There was tinny music playing and the lighting flickered as if the equipment was defective.
I found myself watching although I wanted to put a bullet into the TV screen. I knew it wasn’t real, not here and now, but somehow it was more real than the here and now. The girl took the man’s penis into her mouth and began to suck it and stroke his testicles. She brushed her hair back-a gesture I’d seen in pornographic movies before. It demonstrates control, consent, but I’d never seen a child do it. Her eyes were closed. The boy put his hand down out of shot and came up with a tube of lubricant. He squirted it into the man’s anus and onto his own penis. He moved forward and entered the man as he thrust into the girl’s mouth.
My hand sweated around the pistol grip. I tried to look away but couldn’t. Then I caught sight of the tattoo on the man’s upper arm as he lunged forward, forcing the girl back, carrying the boy with him. It was red, green and black-a snake, a heart, I couldn’t sort it out, but the same design was only centimetres away from me-on the shoulder of Anton Van Kep.
He was smoking a joint held in his left hand in a gold clip. He wore black lace gloves and a black satin G- string. He had a pillow under his buttocks and was making rhythmic movements with his right hand, sliding a vibrator deeply into his anus. He was moaning softly as similar moans and muted words came from the television.
The camera moved from one set of genitalia to another, guaranteeing that the viewer missed nothing and that nothing was faked. Except the emotion. The faces were vacuous and after the director had shown dick and cunt, mouth and cock, dick and balls a few times, he or she seemed to run out of ideas. The scene badly needed cutting but the players eventually moved it along: the two penises were unsheathed and their owners began to pump themselves until they both ejaculated over the face and body of the girl, who writhed, tongued up the semen, lifted her dress, rubbed it on her hairless crotch and tried to look as if this constituted an entry through the gates of paradise.
Van Kep was dildoing himself furiously but he wasn’t quite able to synchronise with the film. The screen was blank when he came, spurting into the shiny black fabric and letting out a guttural gasp of pleasure. He said something, softly and lovingly, as he slid the vibrator out, but it was in a language I didn’t understand. The vibrator had some shit clinging to its tip. Van Kep wiped it on the G-string and then ran his lips over its surface, kissing it and slipping it inside his mouth.
I took three steps forward and grabbed his long hair, pulling his head around towards me. I knocked the vibrator aside with the pistol and pressed the barrel against his thickly painted upper lip.
‘Want to suck this, too?’
He looked at me, blinked twice and burst into tears. He dropped the joint in its clip as deep sobs racked him. He knuckled at his eyes with his gloved fists and panted for breath. I eased back and lowered the gun. The joint was smouldering on the carpet and I picked it up and dropped it into the ashtray on the table beside the bottle of red wine and the half-full glass. There were three or four fresh roaches in the ashtray.
‘Finish your drink and clean yourself up. We’re going to have a talk.’
‘Who… who’re you?’
‘Just do as I say and be quick. Don’t try anything silly or you’ll get seriously hurt or worse. If you’re sensible you can go back to playing games with yourself; if you’re not, I’ll bury you out there under the fucking roses.’
He tried to drink some wine but his hand, the left, shook and he spilled it down his flat, hairless belly. I gestured for him to stand. He got up slowly; he was well over six feet. He tottered out of the room and I followed him to the bathroom where he stripped off his G-string and washed his face and hands. He was utterly passive, stunned by surprise and the grass he’d smoked, but I watched him carefully. He was lean and athletic-looking, and there’s no rule that says a sexual deviant can’t fight.
In the bedroom he pulled on a dark blue tracksuit and bent to reach under the bed.
‘Easy,’ I said.
Still quiet and compliant, he pulled out a pair of sneakers and held them up.
