Next they come to Livingstone, crouched down in the middle of the Goods Line, gun still in hand, oblivious to the world. He’s cradling Joshua Spitt, blood running out of his accomplice onto his once immaculate suit and onto the ground. Martin and Montifore slow to a walk. It had been a pincer movement, Martin realises: Livingstone coming from one direction, Spitt from the other, trapping Sweetwater. Or so they had thought. Now Spitt is bleeding out, his life leaking from him. ‘No-o-o!’ howls Livingstone, a visceral protest, a cry from the soul. A bystander, a student by the look of him, is filming with a phone, moving stealthily closer.
Montifore steps towards Livingstone, arms spread wide, phone in one hand, attracting the gunman’s attention. ‘Henry, don’t shoot. I’m ringing an ambulance.’
Livingstone whirls around as if seeing them for the first time, snapping back to reality, raising his gun, anger and despair in his eyes, looking like he badly wants to shoot someone. But instead of firing bullets, he fires words. ‘Call ’em. Call ’em now!’ he commands.
And then gently he lowers Spitt’s head to the concrete, kneels over him, gun still pointed at Montifore. The spider web tattoo flutters with the man’s failing pulse, his eyes flicker as the life leaches out of them. ‘Joshua,’ whispers Livingstone, the spectre of a voice amid the smoke. He leans down, kisses his dying friend’s forehead. ‘Farewell, brother.’ And then he is on his feet and running, long lanky strides, running as if the furies are with him, running after Harry Sweetwater.
chapter thirty-six
They sit in the police station, the silence inside as thick as the smoke outside. Mandy glances at Martin, but he doesn’t return her look; he’s staring at his hands. Yev is looking around furtively like an addict in need of a fix, desperate for a computer or a device. They’ve been here for hours now, the initial excitement of being freed long gone. She sees herself reflected in clouded grey glass. Still shaken by the speed of events, but otherwise unharmed, unthreatened. She can feel the weight of what’s happened, though, the enormity of it all. She rubs her wrists, still sore from being bound.
The three of them sit in a glassed-in office off a room full of detectives. She sees them swarm, gather in small groups, full of urgency and purpose, full of resolve. And now they pause, all of them, looking towards a bank of television monitors mounted along one wall. It’s the top of the hour and from their glass sanctuary she has a clear view as the network news channels burst into life, like time-lapse flowers, each and every one of them leading with a public shooting in the heart of Sydney. She can’t hear which channel the police have chosen to listen to, but she can read the headlines. GUNFIGHT: TWO DEAD, says Channel Seven, CBD SHOOTOUT, says Channel Nine, MANHUNT, says Channel Ten. She watches, fascinated, her mind beginning to fill in the gaps that Martin has been unable to repeat. She turns to him: at least he’s looking at the screens, not buried in his own thoughts and recriminations. Her heart goes out to him—he’s a good man, he doesn’t deserve this.
Ivan Lucic cracks the door open and enters. ‘Here,’ he says, handing Mandy her phone. ‘We found it not far from the scene. He ditched it as soon as he could. Fortunately for you, someone handed it in.’
‘Thanks,’ she says quietly, taking it.
‘Can I get mine?’ asks Yev.
Lucic shrugs. ‘Do we have it?’
‘You know you do,’ Yev snaps, extracting nothing from Lucic other than a smile.
Morris Montifore walks into the room, takes a seat. Lucic remains standing, a vaguely menacing presence. ‘What a shit show.’ Montifore sighs. ‘I’ll be filling out paperwork from now until the crack of doom.’
‘No sign of Livingstone?’ asks Martin. Mandy is relieved to see he’s still engaged.
‘Why should I tell you anything?’ There is something in Montifore’s eyes, an unspoken allegation. Then he relents. ‘Nothing useful. Some CCTV caught him up at Central. But even if we can follow his trail, it will be too late. He’s vanished.’
‘His colleague, he’s dead?’ asks Yev. He flicks his head towards the television screens.
Montifore nods. ‘Joshua Spitt. Shot dead by Harry Sweetwater as he made his escape.’ The pain on his face is evident as he adds, ‘And a young mum. An innocent. Wrong place, wrong time. Caught in the crossfire. From the size of the wound, I’d say hit by a round from that cannon Livingstone carries.’
‘So, he’s wanted for murder then?’ asks Mandy.
‘They both are.’
Lucic clears his throat, attracting Mandy’s attention. The younger officer shakes his head, as if to quieten her. She meets his gaze, doesn’t look away. She’s not in the mood to take any shit.
Montifore shifts on his seat. ‘Okay. Let’s go through this quickly, establish the chain of events. We’ll stick purely to the facts. I’m keen to hear your theories, your speculation, but not this evening. Our priority now is the crime scene and catching Sweetwater and Livingstone.’
‘Do I need my lawyer?’ Mandy asks. ‘She’s in Melbourne.’
‘I can’t see why. I’ll need a formal statement at some stage. Right now, I just want a quick overview.’ He glances at his watch. ‘I’m needed upstairs in fifteen, once the brass have watched the news.’
‘Okay.’
‘Right. Chain of events. Mandalay, you start. Yevgeny, Martin, add anything you think is relevant but remember, just facts.’ Montifore again looks at his watch, then up at Lucic. ‘Have a seat, Ivan—take notes.’
Lucic grabs a pad and paper from a nearby table, sets his phone down, activating a recording
