The Coast Road

For the second time, and too close to the first, I felt gun metal behind my ear. Different deal this time-two to contend with and them official and probably experienced at this sort of work. Even if I contrived some kind of crash, I’d be too dead to take any advantage. I had nothing to bargain with, nothing to offer, no way to threaten. I drove like an automaton, obeying Barton’s instructions because there seemed nothing else to do. I was beginning to get the blank-to-everything-around-me feeling, as if I was dead already.

‘Scared, Hardy?’

Barton was breaking his own rules but I couldn’t see much hope in that. If he was a little nervous all that was likely to happen was that he wouldn’t do a clean job.

‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.’

‘Oh, job satisfaction? I’ve got plenty of that.’

‘Nice hit on the undercover guy. Who’s handy with the.22-you or the silent one in the back?’

‘Not something for you to worry about.’

‘You might worry about who he’s told what to.’

‘Oh, I know all that. And I know he’s told you bugger-all.’

I chewed that over just to have something else to think about. If what Barton said was true, Purcell’s operation was compromised somehow. Too bad. He’d seemed good at what he did.

I realised that we were heading for the waste area where the bikies held their races and drug supermarket. I hadn’t taken in much about it on my last visit because my night vision isn’t all that flash. Seemed like a good place for what this pair had in mind-quiet when not noisy, out of the way, dirty, and with lots of leather and denim watchdogs. All the traffic had dropped away as we’d left the main roads and now we were on a rough, narrow strip of bitumen that was rotting and falling in at the sides. It twisted and turned as it went through patches of scrub and saltwater flats-not the best scenery for your last look at the world.

A couple of buildings I hadn’t noticed before were scattered around the area-sheds mostly, a couple of shipping containers, a sagging prefab garage. Barton directed me to drive over close to the garage which meant going around a high pile of aggregate being readied for laying. I considered trying to run the car up its side to get it to roll and then take my chances but with two guns on me the chances weren’t worth the effort.

I pulled up by the garage. ‘Now what?’

‘Out carefully, hands behind.’

I stepped out and Barton’s mate neatly handcuffed me.

‘Right,’ Barton said. ‘Let’s get this over with. Get the bobcat, Jake.’

Jake slid open the garage doors. I heard an engine start up and the bobcat lurched out into the sunlight. It stalled. Jake swore and got the motor running again at high, noisy revs. Another stall and he repeated the procedure.

‘Has he got a licence for that thing?’ I said.

‘Brave face. On your knees, Hardy.’

‘No chance.’ I turned and walked away from him. There was nowhere to go and I knew I couldn’t outrun him with my hands pinioned, but he was going to have to chase me and shoot me and when he did I was going to be on my feet.

‘Stop!’

I didn’t.

I heard the shot and for an instant I thought he’d missed and waited for the next. Then three shots followed in quick succession and I hit the dirt, fast and hard. Without hands to protect my fall I landed on my face, bounced and skidded and my eyes and mouth filled with dirt. I lay still, spluttering and coughing and blinking. I rolled onto my side and screwed around to look back. The bobcat was where it had stopped and its motor was still running but Jake wasn’t at the controls. He was pushed back against it with his hands held high. A figure writhed on the ground, yelling obscenities and throwing up little puffs of dust.

I pulled myself up, tripped and fell and got up again. My eyes were streaming but my vision was clearing. A man who I could now see was in uniform jerked Jake’s hands down and cuffed him. The other man stood near the figure on the ground talking into his mobile phone. He started walking towards me, still talking, and I could see that he held a pistol in his hand. He stopped talking and closed the phone. I backed off a few steps, not knowing what to think.

He swung around and shouted, ‘Shut that fuckin’ thing off!’

The motor died and the area became quiet. The man who’d issued the order reached behind him and holstered his pistol. He walked towards me with his hands open in a benign gesture. I recognised Inspector Ian Farrow from Wollongong and realised that I was still alive and likely to remain so.

Farrow stopped a metre away. ‘Hardy,’ he said. ‘You are one lucky, lucky bastard.’

22

Sirens wailed and an ambulance and more police cars arrived but I was oblivious to most of it. They uncuffed me, sat me down in the back of a car with the door open and gave me a damp towel. I wiped at my eyes and mouth and felt the sting of fresh cuts and the dull ache of developing bruises. My face was pretty battered, my knees were sore and my clothes were a mess. I didn’t care. I was alive. After a while I looked around and cracked a smile although it hurt my face. A flock of seagulls was perched on top of the bobcat that had been brought out to plough me under.

The ambulance and one of the cop cars sped off and Farrow had the time to come over and talk to me. I thanked him before he could say anything.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Why’s that?’

‘Let’s get you back to the station and I’ll fill you in. You’re all right, aren’t you? Nothing broken?’ ‘Never better, considering.’ ‘Right. I’ll get one of our blokes to drive your car. Or rather, Ms Karatsky’s car.’

One of the cops started up the bobcat and the seagulls flew away. I watched them as they headed off towards the coast. I fastened the seatbelt and leaned back prepared to enjoy the ride. With my eyes clearing and my mouth starting not to taste like the inside of a football boot, I was beginning to think about what I was working on and how what I’d just been through bore on it. I decided to give it up until I’d heard from Farrow. I closed my eyes and found myself humming ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’. The cop sitting next to me gave me an odd look and I grinned at him. It still hurt to smile, but not as much.

‘We’ve known Clive Barton and some of his boys, like Jacob Henderson, were dirty for a while,’ Farrow said. ‘They’ve been under surveillance. Drugs mostly, import and manufacture, but also facilitating armed hold-ups and maybe the odd hit.’

We were sitting in Farrow’s office in the Wollongong Police HQ. I’d had a decent wash and gargle and had a mug of coffee in my hand. My cuts and abrasions and bruises weren’t hurting too badly thanks to a couple of Panadeine Fortes.

‘But Clive was very careful and we had nothing solid, so when they picked you up and had you lined up for an execution, it gave us the opportunity to arrest them. And that’ll allow us to put some pressure on the bunch. See who’ll squeal on who.’

Elizabeth Farmer would have said ‘whom’ but I wasn’t going to quibble. Farrow went on to say he’d monitored Marisha’s report of the stolen Hyundai and when the team tailing Barton and Henderson saw that they had picked me up they knew they had something and went into action.

‘I didn’t see anyone tailing me and believe me I was looking,’ I said.

‘We were well back. We were only able to get close when Jake started fucking around with that bobcat. Bought you some time. Anyway, that’s what I meant when I thanked you.’

‘Any time. Do you think Barton had anything to do with Purcell’s death?’

‘It’s possible. One of his other cronies is a target shooter. Be hard to prove though.’

‘So I’ll have to testify when they go up for abduction and attempted murder?’

Farrow remained silent.

‘Won’t I?’