I ran until I was only ten metres away and shouted, ‘No!’
Fair-hair spun around towards me, but Stivens had taken the shovel back and didn’t look as if he could stop his swing. I propped, levelled the pistol and shot him. He staggered but the shovel was moving and I shot him again, hitting him lower this time, around the ribs. All the power went out of him and he flopped like a puppet with snapped strings. The shovel hit the ground, bounced and struck Ramsay on the back. He fell forward and lay twitching and weeping. Fair-hair didn’t move a muscle except for letting the cigarette fall from his fingers. I pointed the gun at him. I was sweating and shaking and his solarium tan faded as he opened and closed his mouth without any sound coming out.
‘Lie down on your belly,’ I said. ‘Spread your arms and legs and don’t move or I’ll put a bullet in you. Do it!’
He dropped down as if he was glad to and spreadeagled himself — ruin for his trousers and cashmere sweater. I ignored Ramsay, who was still crying, and examined Stivens. He was alive but only just. Both bullets had hit vital organs and his breath and pulse were fading whispers. He jerked three times, blood gushed from his mouth and he died as I crouched there.
I looked across at Fair-hair who’d lifted his face from the dirt. He was sheet-white. ‘He’s dead,’ I said. ‘Down!’
I moved across to where Ramsay was now lying still and silent on the grass. ‘It’s Cliff Hardy, Ramsay. You’re all right now, son. Rough on you, but you’re all right.’
His voice was a whimper. ‘Hardy?’
‘Yeah. I’ll get you a doctor soon. You’ll be okay. It’s over.’
‘Prue,’ he muttered.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Prue.’
21
I unslung the mobile from Fair-hair’s belt and after that it was cops, cops and more cops. They came from all over the place. They put my gun in a plastic bag but they didn’t have one big enough for the shovel. Ramsay was a mess, barely coherent and unable to confirm my story. They took him away to Mittagong Hospital in an ambulance. I told them he had information about some serious crimes and had come close to being murdered himself and they said they’d keep an eye on him. It didn’t help that I admitted he was the brother of the woman I was involved with — gave it a domestic feel.
Simon Talbot was the name of Stivens’ accomplice and with dirt and grass stains down his sweater and pants he didn’t quite measure up as a Saab driver. He was scared but, give him his due, he kept his mouth shut apart from stating his name and saying he wouldn’t answer questions without a lawyer present. A car took him away and he didn’t look at me once.
A senior sergeant talked to me while the scene-of-crime people got to work around the body. He wasn’t friendly.
‘You had a gun, he had a shovel.’
‘He was going to bash the bloke’s brains in, or decapitate him, or both. What was I supposed to do — throw rocks?’
‘You shot him twice.’
‘He was a big man and he had some momentum up. It took two bullets to stop him and even then…’
‘What?’
‘He wasn’t quite dead when I got to him.’
‘Try to revive him?’
I shook my head.
‘Why not?’
I haven’t shot very many people apart from in Malaya — a handful, less, and it’s not like in the movies. It affects you and it was starting to get to me now. The headache kicked back in strongly and I had to massage my temples. I knew I was sweating and not making anything like a good impression. Also I was angry.
‘I felt his pulse,’ I said. ‘It was just there. Then he vomited a bucket of blood and that was it. What would you have done, Sarge?’
He left me alone and I sat on the ground and wished I’d never heard of Martin Price or Ramsay Hewitt. That led to complicated thoughts of Tess. Ramsay looked as if he could be heading for some sort of breakdown. Would Tess blame me and did I care? It was a low point — one of those moments when I wished I was someone else doing something else. Waste of brain power.
Eventually they bagged the body and took it away. I’d given the sergeant the names of Stankowski and Hammond at Hurstville and he’d contacted them. He came over to me, snapping his mobile shut.
‘Hurstville wants you, Hardy.’
‘I’m fucked,’ I said. ‘I’m not up to driving there.’
‘Not an option. One of our blokes’ll drive you. Nice city trip for him.’
‘Why not make it a her?’
‘You’re an arsehole. I’ve checked on you. You were in the service and you’ve been in this game for fuckin’ years. You could’ve fired over his head, but I reckon you wanted to kill him.’
I stood up and every bone from ankle to neck creaked. ‘I shouted,’ I said. ‘Pity I didn’t have a video camera and I could’ve filmed it so you might just possibly understand.’
‘Terrific. See you in court.’
‘What about my car?’
‘That beat-up Falcon? What about it?’
I discovered that I had the keys in my pocket although I didn’t remember taking them from the ignition. I tossed them to him and he fumbled the catch.
“This is a double murder and an attempted murder and a blackmail and drugs case, Sarge,’ I said. ‘And those Hurstville people are going to kiss my arse. If I was you, I’d make sure the Glebe cops have that beat-up Falcon safe and sound in their yard by tomorrow.’
I swung away and walked towards where a uniformed officer was standing juggling a set of car keys and looking anxious to be off. Before I reached him I turned and looked back at a place I never wanted to see again.
On the drive to Hurstville, with what turned out to be a taciturn constable, I thought about what the sergeant had said. Did I want to kill Stivens? I didn’t think so — we were one-all in our personal encounters and I had no particular animosity towards him. I might’ve if I’d known that it was him who took the pot shot at me, but I didn’t know that and never would. Was it the fact that Ramsay was Tess’s brother that made me fire directly at him twice? How can you tell? In a situation like that you do what seems to need doing at the moment and all later analysis is a waste of time.
At Hurstville they put me in the same interview room I’d been in before but I insisted on a cup of coffee and some pain-killers and that both Hammond and Stankowski sit down and make a video recording of the interview. I laid it all out for them: the allegations of blackmail and drug pushing by Prue Bonham and the Lord George organisation; the likelihood that they’d got their blackmail and drugs hooks into Samantha Price, but her association with Jason Jorgensen and my investigation sponsored by her husband had made them both seem like weak links. Expendable.
Stankowski looked sceptical. ‘What about you, then?’
‘They had a go at me. If you search my place you’ll see a broken kitchen window and probably find a rifle bullet somewhere about.’ I turned my head and showed them the cuts on my ear. ‘Flying glass.’
‘And Hewitt?’ Hammond asked.
‘Another weak link. He blabbed about the blackmailing to one of the women he’d been with and when I turned up knowing about it he panicked and went to Prue Bonham. Probably didn’t know how closely she was involved but he found out. She got the Lord George heavies around to solve the problem.’
Hammond coughed and looked at Stankowski. ‘It all hangs together OK as you tell it, Mr Hardy. But there’s no real proof of anything, is there? Just say you’re right and this Stivens killed Jorgensen and Mrs Price — who’ve we got to prosecute or get information from after you’ve shot him?’
I shrugged. ‘Ramsay Hewitt’ll tell you about the blackmail and the drugs.’
Hammond smoothed the cuffs of her white silk blouse. An olive green jacket was on a hanger on the back of the door. ‘Maybe so, but I’ve been on to the hospital and he’s in a pretty bad way emotionally.’
‘Not surprising. He was facing something like a Japanese execution. What about, what’s his name — Talbot?’