day off, go home and start drinking. Not unless something has really shaken him to the core. He wouldn’t have enjoyed the interview with the police or having to run interference for Lorrie, but it shouldn’t break him.
But there he was, opening the door, collar and tie in place, suit trousers, polished shoes. His hair was a bit awry and he was paler than when I’d last seen him, but there was no smell of booze and no glass in his hand. He stepped aside without a word and I went in. The small reception area gave way to a large living room with all the right fixings-bookshelves, entertainment unit, expensive furniture and a wall that was all window with a view that took in part of the bridge and went all the way across the water to the Opera House. Picture postcard plus.
O’Connor stood in the middle of the room as if it wasn’t his place at all and he didn’t belong there.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I said. ‘You’re acting like a zombie.’
‘Nothing. Nothing. You said we have to talk.’
He was clenching and unclenching one fist and trying not to look at me. Drawing closer I realised he was sweating.
‘You’re in a bad way. Are you diabetic? You look like you’re having a hypo.’
‘No, I’m not diabetic. I’m all right.’
‘You don’t look it or sound it. I need you to be on the ball as this thing goes along. Who’s your doctor?’
‘He doesn’t a need a doctor, Hardy. And you need to stand quite still just where you are.’
Stewart Master stepped into the room and the pistol he held was pointed at my chest.
25
This was no Kevin Simmonds, barefoot in tattered cardigan and trousers being hunted like a wild animal; not your average escapee getting pissed in the first pub or captured in the first brothel he got to. Stewart Henry Master was clean-shaven and neatly dressed in a navy tracksuit and Nike sneakers. He was sober, alert and fit- looking, as if he’d just done a good gym session, had a shower, an espresso with two sugars.
‘How the hell did you do it?’ I said.
‘With a lot of help from my friends.’ He nodded at O’Connor. ‘Bryce, I want you to open Hardy’s jacket, left side and take out the gun he’s got tucked away in there. You gave it just a little twitch when you were on camera, Hardy.’
O’Connor, who’d relaxed a bit since the immediate cause of his high anxiety had been resolved, shook his head. ‘I detest firearms. I’m not going near one.’
‘I’ll save you the trouble.’ Moving very slowly I held the jacket open with my left hand and eased the. 38 from the holster with the thumb and forefinger of my right. Still holding it like that by the butt, I flipped it onto one of the leather armchairs.
Stewart nodded approvingly. ‘Very smart.’ He moved smoothly across to the chair, picked up the pistol and put it in the pocket of his tracksuit top.
‘We can do without the guns, Stewart,’ I said. ‘Nobody needs to get shot here.’
‘Get this straight, Hardy. I know you’re a tough guy and a risk-taker and a smooth talker and all that shit. I heard a few stories about you on the inside. But right now and for the immediate future, I say what happens down to the last detail, and you and Bryce have fuck-all input. Understood?’
O’Connor was nodding vigorously but I wasn’t prepared to give Stewart the total control he wanted. I ignored the gun he still held and moved a few steps to lower myself onto the arm of a chair. ‘It’s a nice speech. We know you’re good at that. There’s no evidence you’re any bloody good at anything else except escaping from prison, and that’s got a limited application.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about your wife being held by a desperate man who’s already killed three people that we know of, and what can be done to save her life.’
It took a little of the starch out of him. He must have been running on adrenaline since sometime before his escape and that fuel only lasts so long. His compact body seemed to sag a little and he blinked a few times, a sure sign of fatigue.
‘I’m working on it,’ I said. ‘She’s my client and I feel responsible, but that’s a responsibility we share. You wouldn’t have done what you’ve done without thinking you could help her. Escaping’ll add years to your sentence. You must know that.’
Master appeared to lose interest in the pistol. He lowered it and brought his other hand up to his face, massaging a spot between his eyes. I guessed he had a throbbing headache.
‘We have to pool resources,’ I said. ‘I need to know what you know. You’re whacked. I reckon you’re safe here, at least for a while. I suggest you put down the guns and let Bryce’ get us something to drink and something for your headache. Then we talk and see if we can help Lorrie.’
He wavered. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Fuck you and your “I’m the boss” bullshit. See how close I am now? I reckon I could get to you before you could shoot me, because I’d know when I was going to move and you wouldn’t.’
‘What about Bryce?’
‘Bryce’ll do whatever we tell him. Won’t you, Bryce?’
O’Connor did some more nodding.
Master put his pistol on the coffee table, took mine out of his pocket and placed it there too. A metallic clink. ‘I’ve never shot anyone and I don’t want to start now,’ he said. ‘Unless I have to for Lorrie’s sake.’
We men of action treated O’Connor like a servant, getting him to bring us drinks and warning him to stay away from doors and windows and phones. At that point I decided I was wrong about O’Connor perhaps having been a professional footballer. I reckoned that if he’d played the game at all, it would only have been at his private school. What I’d taken for force and aggression now seemed more like bluff backed up by status and money and support staff. When Master had bailed him up after he’d left Lorrie’s office, it appeared he’d gone straight to water and had done everything he’d been told.
‘Where’d you get the gun?’ I asked.
‘The same place I got the clothes and the walking around money. Don’t worry about it. You say you’re working on finding Lorrie. Tell me. I’ve got some ideas. Maybe they fit together.’
I told him everything about the meeting with Black Andy Piper and the money. No reason not to. O’Connor brought in whisky, ice, soda and glasses. Master stared at the whisky longingly.
‘Beer,’ he said.
O’Connor produced two Crown Lagers. Master opened one and drank sparingly. ‘Been off it a while,’ he said. ‘The hard stuff’d knock me flat the way I feel.’
O’Connor poured himself a large scotch. ‘As your legal adviser, I-’
‘Shut up,’ Master snapped. ‘I’m still not sure you weren’t in on the fucking set-up.’
I mixed a weak scotch and soda with ice. ‘I don’t think he was. He probably knew something was queer before things went very far but he didn’t do anything about it.’
‘I deny it,’ O’Connor said.
Master drank a little more beer. ‘You probably wouldn’t have the guts. Okay, Hardy. Do you reckon Piper’s fair dinkum and can he do anything?’
‘Yes and yes. I wouldn’t say that except for the money he wants.’
‘How were you planning to get hold of that?’
I pointed at O’Connor, who almost spilled his drink.
Master nodded. ‘Good thinking.’
‘Impossible,’ O’Connor said. ‘That amount of money. Every bank transaction over ten thousand is-’
‘Don’t be naive, Bryce. I know people who’ll advance you that in cash in return for certain assurances, and Hardy does as well, probably.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I can think of a couple who’d advance him, not me.’
O’Connor slumped back deflated in his chair. The thought of being still further involved in this mess took away his brief flash of professional spirit. He undid his top shirt button, loosened his tie and worked on his triple
