23
The car hadn’t quite come to a stop and I had to stand on the brake to stop it bumping the one in front. I swore again and O’Connors voice sputtered in my ear.
‘Is that all you can say?’
‘Sorry. I was driving. When was this?’
‘They don’t know. He was missed this morning.’
‘Did you talk to him yesterday?’
‘Of course I did. I tried to get him to tell me anything he could about this Eastman. He said nothing and he hung up on me. I tried to call back and he refused to take the calls. What the hell am I going to do? The police are coming to talk to me this morning.’
‘For God’s sake, don’t tell them anything about Lorrie. Just be your above-it-all self. Everything between you and your client is confidential, etc’
‘I’m not sure that’ll do under the circumstances.’
‘It’ll have to do. I’m working on this and I’ve got some help. That’s all I can tell you.’
‘What if Master contacts me?’
‘Not likely, but if he does just tell him what I’ve told you and give him my mobile number. I’ll meet him anywhere, any time. But say as little about me as you possibly can to the police.’
‘They’ll know you visited him and they know you’re working for his wife. Oh my God, they’ll try to contact her.’
‘They won’t succeed, will they?’
I rang off and sat in the car thinking about it. I wished I knew more about Warren North-how he thought, how long his fuse was, how he’d react to this news. Was it good or bad for Lorrie? Would Master know where North was likely to take her? And would he intervene on his own and, if so, with what resources? How would this affect Piper and the people he was associated with? Lots of questions, no answers, as usual.
I went inside, stripped off, showered and shaved, and put on fresh clothes. The light on the answering machine was flickering and I pressed the button.
‘Hey, Cliff. You know the voice and you’ve got the number. Call me if you need me.’
Hank Bachelor, boy detective, still sounding cheerful. I had hours to kill before the meeting with Piper. I put my mobile on the charger and cleaned and oiled my pistol. The chamois shoulder holster was creased and dusty from hanging in a closet and I wiped it down and smoothed it out before strapping it on. It felt uncomfortable as it always had, but it sat flat and neat under my armpit and didn’t sag under the weight of the gun.
The mobile was fully charged and I put it down alongside my keys and wandered through the house. I turned the computer on and checked the email, but there were no further unsourced messages and those that came up I scarcely registered. The phone rang and I snatched up the upstairs extension.
‘Hardy, this is Inspector Carmichael. No doubt you’ve heard about Master.’
‘I’ve heard.’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I don’t know anything about it.’
‘I still need to talk to you. We’re on our way to your place.’
‘You think I’ve got Stewie Master stashed away here?’
‘See you directly.’
No, you won’t. I snatched up the mobile and the keys and got out.
As everyone knows, time goes more quickly as you get older, but, in a funny way, when you’re trying to kill time it slows down. I was still much too early for the Marrickville appointment, even after filling the car with petrol and oil and getting the tyres checked and the windscreen cleaned. If I lived in Bondi, which I’d often thought of doing, I’d put in the time at the beach, staring at the waves, but where do you go between Petersham, where I got the petrol, and Marrickville?
When Carmichael and Hammond got to my place and found me gone, the chances were they’d put out a bulletin on my car. I didn’t want to drive aimlessly around. I remembered a park in Marrickville where they had some of the last remaining grass tennis courts in Sydney. As I drove I caught a news bulletin about Master’s escape from Avonlea. There were still no details on how he’d managed it, but there was a full and accurate description of him. At least he wasn’t described as ‘dangerous’.
I parked in the shade, bought a take-away coffee across the road and strolled down to the courts. I had the mobile with me. If Stewart Master wanted to contact me and was able to, he could. Involved with an assassin, a corrupt legal and police network, an escaped convict and investigating police, my position was far from secure. I’d been in the middle of nasty games before, but not with as many serious players.
A mixed doubles match between some accomplished players was in progress on beautifully grassed courts with the white lines clearly marked. Nothing quite like it. The dinosaur era, as John McEnroe calls it, right here. The old-world aspect of the tennis game, taking me back to my teenage years playing inter-club competition on suburban grass courts, had a calming effect.
The middle-aged players all had competent serves and ground strokes, but it was clear that the surface was a novelty to them. They tried to set themselves for topspin shots but the ball wouldn’t bounce high enough and they got frustrated. The players taking the net position on serve handled themselves well enough, but when it came to approaching the net at speed they faltered, unsure of their footing. All but one of them were fundamentally back court players anyway, and the woman who was most comfortable at the net chopped her opponents up severely. She and her partner were clearly going to win and consequently were having the most fun. I sipped coffee and watched, envying them the freedom to play games. I clapped one of her cross-court volleys, got an appreciative wave in reply, and went back to the car.
The mobile chirped and I answered it.
‘Hardy.’
‘This is Carmichael, Hardy. You’re being foolish.’
I cut him off.
Marrickville has been through as many changes as most places in the inner-west. Jeff Fenech was known as the ‘Marrickville Mauler’, so I guess the Maltese must have had a foothold. Then there was a heavy Greek and Lebanese presence and more recently Asians have moved in strongly. The Demetrios restaurant was a product of that earlier migrant wave, battling bravely against the rising tide of Vietnamese restaurants and Chinese supermarkets. I parked at a short distance in spaces provided for rail travellers and made my way back to the main street. I wore a loose cotton jacket with a denim shirt, drill slacks and leather boots. The Smith amp; Wesson rode high and tight under my arm. My wallet was zipped into a pocket in the jacket. I was sweating under a high sun in a clear sky. When I thought about it, Black Andy Piper was one of the last people in Sydney I’d want to see.
They were waiting for me at the door of the Demetrios- both big, both in suits, both ex-coppers. Who else would Piper employ and what else could men like that do once their warrant cards had been surrendered or, more likely, taken from them? I half recognised one of them but couldn’t recall his name; didn’t know the other.
‘Gidday, Hardy, you arsehole. Remember me?’
‘Remind me.’
‘Loomis.’
‘Oh, yeah. Mr Loomis, detective sergeant that was.’
‘Right. Come this way, Hardy, and don’t give us any trouble. This is a respectable place.’
There were a number of responses I could have made but I resisted the impulse. Loomis was a thug I’d run into years before when a missing person case had crossed wires with a semi-illegal police sting. Loomis liked hurting people then and probably still did. No point in antagonising him now. I followed him and the other one into the restaurant and straight down the corridor that led to the toilets. Loomis’s mate held the door open and I went in with Loomis following.
