Jacques looked the way a Jacques is supposed to look-dark hair, eyes and skin, neat in movement and manner. His accent was Canadian, with the Scottish vowels. Townsend introduced us and we were off in his HiAce van. I asked him a few questions about the filming technique, but I didn’t understand much of what he said. The night was clear and the mid-week traffic was light. He asked me to navigate. I used the UBD and small torch from the glovebox, and got us there pretty efficiently.
Even at night, the view dropping down towards the beach was dramatic, with lights on the headlands and the sea shimmering. Lights blinked on the boats moored at the small marina. We cruised along the Esplanade, the road bordering the strip of park, and then drove up a few streets until we had a view down to the beach and surroundings. The Esplanade wasn’t well lit, and the big Moreton Bay figs would diminish the light in the park area. The park lights were dim. Good for some, not for others.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
‘Plenty of places to set up-those trees, over by the… what is that building?’
I didn’t bother with the history. ‘Bathers’ Pavilion.’
‘There are some other spots over there. Down on the steps to the beach, or off to the right-behind that big tree with the triple trunk. What do you call it?’
‘A Moreton Bay fig. Looks the best bet, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘How’s the light?’
‘Irrelevant, man, with the equipment I’ve got.’
‘My eyes obviously aren’t as good as yours. Have you got any night-vision glasses?’
‘Of course.’
He got out, opened the side of the van and came back with field glasses as light as a feather. He made adjustments, and when I looked through them the scene was reddish-tinged but very clear.
‘What’s with the pistol?’ Jacques said.
I’d brought the raincoat with me and the shape of the pistol in a pocket must have been plain at some point.
‘Sharp eyes,’ I said.
‘Professional necessity. So?’
‘It’s more of a prop than anything else.’
‘Just prop it well away from me.’
I nodded and used the glasses again, sweeping them around this time. I laughed and handed them back to him.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Jacques, mate, this is a bloody dodgy situation all round, but there’s one thing to be glad of.’
He was looking through the glasses now. ‘And that is…?’
‘That we’re not setting up so we have to deal with that dinky little island out there.’
I’d forgotten the island although the webpage had noted it-a small outcrop reached by a stone bridge. Only a few metres out, so not really an island, but it would’ve added to the complications.
‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘Bien sur. ’
‘You speak French?’
‘You’ve just heard ninety per cent of it.’
We drove down and parked a couple of hundred metres to the right of the rotunda, past the old toilet block and bush shelter, angle parking all along and there were no cars in the immediate vicinity of our target area. We established ourselves behind a Moreton Bay fig big enough to hide a caravan. Jacques phoned Townsend, who was on his way, telling him where to park. He joined us. They tinkered with their equipment while I kept watch. We had a clear view of the rotunda at about forty metres away.
Traffic on the road was sporadic and becoming more infrequent, and over the next hour lights went out in most of the apartments across the Esplanade. Immediately opposite was a school with a tennis court attached and one of the large apartment blocks was vacant undergoing major renovation. The couple of cafes would still be doing business at this time of night in the summer months, but were closed now. The apartment blocks were ornate, pillared numbers. With the rotunda, the area was big on pillars. It wasn’t the kind of place where drunks slept on the benches or the homeless camped out with their bags and sheets of plastic. For no good reason, I remembered that the beach had a shark net. Why think of that?
I saw moving shadows now and then and judged them to be swaying tree branches, flickers from occasional car lights, late-night seagulls, flapping bunting left over from some event. The waves were quiet on the beach and rocks, audible but no problem for the microphone. The only other sounds came from passing cars, a distant aeroplane or two, and our breathing.
Headlights. A car drew up on the road adjacent to the rotunda and a man got out. He stared around, squared his shoulders and marched towards the meeting point. Townsend tapped me on the shoulder. His opened hands said, ‘Perkins?’
I used the night glasses. I’d only seen the man once, in the Lord of the Isles pub, but there was no mistaking him. He had the belly, the bullying stride. I nodded. Jacques and Townsend did things with their equipment.
Another headlight. Jane Farrow, in jeans and jumper, got out and went towards the rotunda with only the barest glance around. I couldn’t decide whether this was a good attitude to take or not. There was enough moonlight to see the two figures as they stood on the steps of the building. I couldn’t hear anything, but the body language-a waving hand, a shrug, a vigorous nod- suggested an animated discussion. The sound of Jacques’s filming was negligible-a very muted whirr. Townsend stood stock still, his hands clasped in front of him like a penitent.
So far, so good, but I was troubled. Was I right about those shadows? I used the night glasses, swept the field, saw nothing. But there was still a niggle, an irritant. Was it likely that Perkins would come alone? People engaged in dodgy enterprises usually like to have support of some kind. Weren’t there alleged to be two people on the grassy knoll in Dallas? I decided to check on Perkins’s car.
Without disturbing the other two, I crouched and retreated, using the shadows of the trees to circle around, go down to the beach, and come up on the cars on the blind side. It was slow going, and moving in a crouch tests muscles you don’t always use. No bushman, I had to watch my footing in case there were sticks to snap, rocks to trip over. It took time.
When I was twenty metres from the car I saw movement inside it. The night glasses revealed a figure in the back seat. He touched his left ear several times. Adjusting an earpiece? Then the window slid down and a rifle barrel protruded. Not far, but far enough. The car was fifty metres away from the rotunda with a clear line of sight.
I dropped the glasses and sprinted, stepped around the car, grabbed the barrel and pulled. You don’t hold a long firearm tightly; you cradle it. The rifle came free and the man swore. He opened the door and came at me like a charging bull. I hit him hard on the side of the head with the rifle butt. He sagged back against the car but he wasn’t done. He lashed out with his foot, hit the rifle and sent it spinning away. The cap he’d been wearing fell off. He was bald, stocky, strongly built. He was my man.
He knew how to fight, coming in low and hard. He was younger and stronger than me, but I had the fuel of rage. He tried a vicious swing at my crotch but I got my knee up in time. The blow hurt, but it hit bone and hurt him more than me. I stamped down hard on his instep and used the leverage to slam my fist into his nose.
That didn’t worry him too much and he aimed a kick at my knee. Just missed, and it put him off-balance. I drove a left uppercut into his balls and brought my clenched right fist down on the back of his neck as he dropped. He sprawled on the ground, stunned but still conscious.
I crouched over him like Dempsey over Firpo.
‘You killed Lily Truscott.’
He was game, tried to needle me into giving him another opportunity. ‘Sure did,’ he said, with a flow of blood and mucus running into his mouth. He spat it all up at me. ‘Gave her a fucking good feel too, after I did her.’
I pinned him at the throat with my left hand, cutting off his windpipe. I could hear noises around me now-
