There was a quiet knock at the door. Jackson opened it and the photographer came in carrying a video camera. “Top stuff,” he said.
Tobin beckoned him across. The photographer pressed a button on the camera, and they put their heads close together to watch the small screen. Tobin’s wheezy chuckle would have gone over well in the tunnel of horrors. He waved to Jackson, who shook his head. “Just so long as it’s what we need.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rhino,” Tobin said. When Jackson didn’t react he jerked his thumb at me. “Show him how he looks in action.”
The photographer brought the camera across and pressed the button. I saw myself in the corridor just after I’d come through the door. The camera must have been mounted high; it caught Kenny’s reaction, and I saw I’d made a mistake when I thought I’d got him by surprise. He was more than ready. So ready that he telegraphed and slowed his punch, making it easy for me. Still, I looked pretty good in there, and I’m sure the coup de grace wasn’t in the script.
“Nice bit of work with the knee,” Tobin said.
I nodded. “I thought so at the time. I see it a bit differently now. I don’t think Kenny was expecting the knee.”
Tobin ground out his cigar butt. “Maybe not, but you can’t always plan things down to the last detail. It wouldn’t be Kenny’s first king hit. Now,” he reached into his pocket and took out the Polaroids, “you don’t look quite so good in these.”
The photographer showed me the pictures; he strayed closer than he should have. I looked-a man with a crazed look in his face was blinking and waving a gun around that looked to be the size of a howitzer, good angle-but I didn’t give the photographs my full attention. When I was sure he was in range I swung my right foot hard into the photographer’s knee. He screamed, dropped the photographs and went down hard, whimpering. He scrambled up and hobbled towards me with the video camera held high. Jackson sprang forward, snatched the camera with one hand and gave the photographer a rabbit punch with the other. He went down again.
“It’s not your night, sport,” I said.
Jackson put the camera and pictures on the navigation desk and snapped his fingers at the man on the floor. “Out,” he said. “Go and have a drink.”
I grinned. “With Kenny.”
The photographer shot me an evil look and limped out. Tobin lit another cigar. His amused calm worried me more than Jackson’s nervous energy. I looked around as best I could, immobilised as I was in the chair. There was nothing much to see; we were twenty feet above the water; the lights of Darling Point looked a million miles away.
Tobin puffed his cigar. “Tight spot, Cliff.”
“I admit I’m puzzled… Barry.”
“What about scared?”
“Should I be? You haven’t hurt me yet. I’d say I was winning, head to head.”
“You don’t know what the game is. Let’s hear it, Rhino.”
Jackson fiddled with the switches again, and I heard my voice loud and clear: “Me? Set up a hit? In your case I might think about it…” Jackson hit a button and the tape stopped. He fiddled some more and I heard myself say, “Lenko did a good job…”
11
Tobin couldn’t resist telling me all about it. How he’d help to set up the hit with Lenko; how Jackson had used my name when dealing on the telephone with Prue Harper. Harper was a prostitute Didi Steller used to mix with for the thrill of being on the edge of the demi-monde. Everything went wrong when Didi suicided and Lenko started talking.
“Couldn’t have anticipated that.” Tobin couldn’t talk or do anything for long without a drink. He’d fished out a bottle of scotch and was on his second snort. Jackson was nursing one. They hadn’t offered me any.
“I don’t know,” I said. “You must have known that Didi was unstable and Beni was dumb. I’d say you screwed up, Barry. Your name came up, did it? I expect Prue Harper’d know you.”
Tobin smiled. “We took out a bit of insurance there by throwing your name into the pool, as it were.”
I began to get an inkling of what was going on then. The photographs, the film, the kid glove treatment. It smelled of a set-up and, knowing Tobin, the details would be nasty. “Did you have a hand in this hearing business? The review of my licence?”
Tobin nodded. “I’ve still got a few friends on the force. But don’t worry, Hardy, you won’t have to attend any hearing.”
Jackson snickered behind me.
“Don’t you see it?” Tobin said. “You’re going to kill poor little Prue.”
I stared at him. A cramp had started in my arms and was sending a sharp pain up into my shoulders when I moved. I worked my wrists up and down in the few inches of free play available. The cramp got worse and I winced. “You’re crazy. I’m not killing anybody.”
Jackson worked the controls of his tape recorder again and my voice said, “… know Prue Harper.”
“As it happens,” Tobin said, “you don’t know her. But by the time the experts get through with this tape it’ll sound as if you do. In fact, it’ll sound as if you know everything and have been a very bad boy.”
“Bullshit. They can spot doctored tapes.”
“Not always. You’d be amazed at some of the advances in that field in recent times. Especially in the States.” Tobin waved his cigar. “And I’ve got a few connections there, too.”
“I can’t understand why you left the force,” I said. “I know all about Rhino. He got caught. But you’re so smart, Barry. What went wrong?”
Tobin’s face took on the plum colour again. He gulped his drink and poured some more. I’d found the soft spot, but I doubted it could do me any good: “You’re history, Hardy. Prue Harper’s going to be found dead, and these pictures and the tape are going to support the view that you killed her and you’re not going to be in a position to contradict that view, if you follow me.”
I shook my head. “Fantasy.”
Tobin smiled. “You’re not going to tell us you never killed anybody?”
It wasn’t a subject I thought a lot about.
I’d killed plenty of men in Malaya, but that had been in war, which was different, or so they told you and so you told yourself. As a civilian I’d killed two men. One had been pointing a loaded gun at the man standing next to me and the other, still worse, had been all set up to shoot me.
Jackson said, “We’ve got your gun, Cliff.”
“Means nothing.”
Tobin leaned forward from where he was sitting. He kept out of kicking range, but I could smell the tobacco and whisky fumes like a rich, sickly breeze. He was still agitated and angry. “They’ll call your mate Parker. And he’ll have to admit that you questioned him about the witness protection programme. A good barrister’ll get that out of him and no more.”
Jackson was getting into the spirit of it as well. He finished his drink and Tobin poured him another, a big one. “And Lou Campisi’ll say you asked him about where to find me. Of course, he won’t mention the boat.”
“Was that a set-up, too?”
“Let’s say we studied up on you.” Tobin was calming down. He sucked in air and the flush in his swollen, distended face receded. “Learned your habits. You were a sitting duck for something like this, Hardy. Parker aside, you’re not popular with the force. And inside the force he’s not exactly a pin-up boy. I don’t think you’ve got too many friends, anywhere you look.”
“I’ve got a few in the press.”
“Wankers,” Tobin said. “And a dead private eye’s not much of a story. They’re supposed to be dead, or in gaol. Didn’t I read a survey on the professions some-where? Rating them in public esteem? I don’t think private detective even got a mention. I know that journalists were near the bottom.”
