I didn’t believe that. Not for one instant.
Anne went out the front door. In the kitchen, by the light from the passage, I found a dark dishcloth, tied it around my neck like a napkin to hide my white shirt. I went out the door, quietly closed on the latch, stood against the wall on the steel fire escape landing and looked down on the parking area.
It was dark, half moon hidden by cloud, the only light coming from a long open-fronted tenants’ garage at the back of the property. There were only a few lights on in the building, most people not home yet. In this area, they’d all be working fourteen hours a day to pay for the flat and the BMW and the holiday in Tuscany.
Music coming from one of the flats: Miles Davis.
Anne came into sight briefly, long legs, walking briskly towards her car. Moments later, she reversed out, bathing the yard in blood red light, drove around the corner of the building.
Bobby’s boys would not touch Anne, had no reason to. It was me Bobby wanted.
I unclipped the holster, drew the Colt. Time to go.
I took a step towards the stairs, hesitated, moved to the landing rail, back and right cheekbone against the wall, looked down at the landing below.
Nothing. I leaned my head a little further over…
The tip of a shoe, a black running shoe, in the doorway.
Can’t go down. Can’t go back. The man below’s partner would be in the building now, possibly already in the flat.
I opened the back door, thankful that I’d put it on the latch, backed into the kitchen.
No sound in the flat.
I looked around. Espresso machine on the counter. I holstered the Colt, unplugged the machine, picked it up, solid, heavy, cradled it in one arm, stepped out the door again, closed it quietly.
I stepped carefully to the front edge of the landing, coffee machine held above my head, leant forward until I could see both shoes below.
‘Hey,’ I said, gruffly, urgently.
He came out of the doorway fast, in a crouch, looking up, silenced weapon coming up in the two-handed grip.
Neckhead. I saw his face for a split second before I threw the coffee machine at him with all the force I could muster. He fired, just a ‘phut’ noise, no louder than a clap with cupped hands.
But I was already on my way down, one jump to the intermediate landing, painful contact with the railing, left turn…
Neckhead was on his knees. The coffee machine appeared to have struck him full in the face, blood down the right cheek, the appliance lying in front of him.
He brought the pistol up-one-handed now, not fast, puzzled look on his face-as I dived at him.
Another phut.
I felt nothing, just the impact of crashing into him, knocking him backwards. I was feeling for his throat, found the hand holding the pistol, forced the barrel back towards him, back, back, tried to find the trigger. He was making a strangling noise, I could smell his hot breath: cigarette smoke and meat.
Close up, the sound was loud, I felt the heat, smelt the acrid cordite. His body went limp instantly.
I pulled away, stood up. The bullet had gone in under his left nostril, the back of Neckhead’s head was gone. Even in the dark, I could see the blood spreading out from him onto the steel deck.
It had all taken a few seconds. No-one was shouting. Miles was still playing. Probably a tape on a time switch to deter burglars.
Above me, I heard Anne’s kitchen door open.
I took the silenced pistol out of Neckhead’s hand, shrank back against the door of the second floor flat. Where Neckhead had waited.
Waited.
Heard the soft feet on the steps. Rubber soles.
Saw the shoes, big, the trousers, dark, the waistband of the ski jacket.
No more.
The legs stopped. He had seen Neckhead’s legs.
‘Jesus,’ he said, came down the steps in a rush, swung onto the landing, sawn-off shotgun in his right hand, its ugly pig-nostril muzzles coming around to face me.
I shot him in the chest, twice, a third time. His eyes registered something, he bounced against the railing, mouth open, made a sound, cheerful, surprised sound, fell over sideways, slid.
I stood there, pistol in hand, feeling sick. The dishcloth was still around my neck. I took it off, used it to wipe the pistol, put it back in Neckhead’s hands again, pressed his fingers, utmost care.
I listened. Nothing but the growl of traffic on Hoddle and Victoria and Wellington Parades, and Miles Davis.
I left the scene of the crimes. Left carefully, in case Bobby had sent more than two people to get me. Not that taking care would make any difference in the long run, the short run even.
He who says Hill says Scully.
I couldn’t kill armies of people.
I went out on the Tullamarine freeway, suddenly hungry, bought a hamburger in the drive-through at a McDonald’s in Keilor, sat in the car park, appetite gone, system flooded with adrenalin, mind lurching between clear and blank.
I hadn’t listened to the Bianchi tape.
I didn’t want to listen to it. I’d left the Radomsky house with it in my hand and what I had done was to telephone Anne Karsh. All the effort to find it, lying to decent people, and then I put it in my pocket, put it out of my mind.
I took the slim plastic box out of my coat pocket, took out the cassette, slid it into the tape player, hit the buttons.
A voice, counting, humming, whistling. Darren Bianchi’s voice.
Silence.
What was he doing?
Testing a wire, that’s what he was doing.
Noise, traffic noise, tinny music, scratchy sounds.
So what’s she supposed to know, I mean, what do I…Bianchi’s voice again. Barely audible against the background sounds.
Know the absolute fucking minimum, anything goes wrong, she knows close to fuckall. Scully’s voice.
Bianchi is wearing a wire, sitting in a car with Scully. His boss, Scully.
Dennis will ring…Bianchi’s voice.
Then Scully: If Howie goes for his walk, only if he’s out of there. Doesn’t go, we wait till he goes somewhere. He goes, we see him, Dennis rings, says he’s coming round. At eight thirty. Now she’s got to wipe that from the tape, get it? Howie hears it, we’re fucked. It’s for fucking Faraday’s benefit.
So Howie doesn’t know. He’s gonna think, who’s at the door?
Darren, don’t worry about that, right? My department. Just one thing the bitch’s got to do, right. Open the garage door at eight thirty on the fucking nail. You make sure she understands that. No fucking margin for error.
Yeah, eight thirty.
Yeah, eight thirty. It’s just a run-through. She keeps her mouth shut, she gets wrapped up, they’ll be out of there, five fucking minutes, less. No way Dennis will know she’s not as surprised as he is. Okay?
Okay.
Something else. You make sure she knows, change of mind now, she’s meat. Too fucking late for that. She’s fucking in. Doesn’t want to do it, she’s seen fucking Daimaru for the last time. She’s fucking sushi. Doesn’t do it right, same thing. Applies to you, too. And me. And fucking Bobby. You don’t know this fucking El G, fucking mad. I know him from way back, kill anything, kill anyone, come in his pants while he’s doing it. Totally fucking crazy, makes snuff movies. Fuck it up, we’ll be fucking snuff stars.
Scuffling noises, car door slamming, Scully saying something inaudible.
The next five minutes of the tape were recorded somewhere noisy with background voices, laughter, scratchings, scrapings, bangings. The pub in Deer Park? Bianchi, low voice, giving Carlie Mance her instructions.
I listened with my head back on the seat, mouth dry, wishing I had something to drink, a cigarette.
Carlie showed no signs of fear, no desire to call it off. Bianchi told her what would happen to her anyway. Her last words were: Darren, tell ’em make sure they don’t put anything over my nose-can’t bear that, can’t even have a pillow over my nose.