I unscrewed the handset the way Hank Bachelor had, and removed the device. I had no idea how the monitoring worked, but I imagined that it took sophisticated equipment at a listening post. Warren North, aka Frank Eastman aka Phil West, had more to worry about now than my phone calls. The more I thought about it the more difficult his situation looked. He’d miscalculated if he thought holding Lorrie would scare me off, and if he thought it’d control Master he’d made an even worse mistake. By now he must know that Master was on the loose and angry. The plan for getting the heroin into the gaol system was shot. I hoped North was under enough stress to impair his judgement and not enough to cause him to wipe the slate clean.
I phoned Bryce O’Connor and got his secretary. She was the person I’d bullied before and when I told her my name she gave me his mobile number.
‘He said he was anxious to hear from you.’
‘That’s nice. Did he say where he’d be?’
Her tone indicated that she was less than happy. ‘I think he was going to Mrs Master’s home or her office.’
Good. O’Connor was on the job. I dialled the mobile number. It rang for a long time before he answered. That didn’t worry me. Maybe he disliked the device as much as I did and fumbled with it, hoping the ringing would stop.
‘Yes?’
The voice was recognisably his, but only just.
‘O’Connor, this is Hardy.’
‘Ah, Hardy. Yes. Good.’
‘We need to talk. Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Your office said you were at Mrs Master’s office or her house.’
‘Ah, I was. Now I’m at home. Yes, we need to talk.’
‘What’s wrong? Are you drunk? Did the police give you a hard time?’
‘… I have had a drink or two. The police? No, not so bad. You’d better come here, Hardy.’
‘Where’s here?’
‘My flat… apartment.’
He rattled off an address in Kirribilli. A trip over the bridge or through the tunnel in late afternoon traffic wasn’t something to look forward to, but O’Connor sounded rattled and I needed him to be able to function when the moment to raise the money came. If it came. I told him I’d be there as soon as possible and hung up. One good thing about the shabbiness and smell of my office is that, while I’m usually glad to get there to deal with business, I’m never sorry to leave it.
The other side of the harbour wasn’t my stamping ground and it wouldn’t hurt to be there while Carmichael and Hammond were on the lookout for me. Given what Frank had said, I thought I’d want to contact them when the time was right. But not yet.
The Mitsubishi handled well and I decided to take the bridge for old time’s sake and because I haven’t yet sorted out the options at the tunnel exit. The traffic was thick but it flowed well and I was across in that semi-foreign land sooner than I expected. I worked my way through to the address O’Connor had given me and it wasn’t really Kirribilli at all but North Sydney. Why do they do it? To be able to say they live in the same suburb as the Prime Minister? That’d be enough to keep me away.
The four level apartment block was set in a garden that would have looked better a few months back, before the big dry. It was still pretty enough, with carefully tended native trees and shrubs and white stone paths with a couple of judiciously placed benches giving a nice harbour view. I could see the blue sheen of a swimming pool through the obligatory fence. The lucky well-heeled residents would be paying top dollar for every plant, bench, tile and litre of water. Security, too. An underground garage could only be accessed by remote control. To get through the gate set in a high wall that was sure to be electronically monitored, you had to stand where a camera, well up out of reach and protected by a heavy grill, could count the hairs in your nose. I buzzed O’Connor’s flat-number two.
His voice came over the intercom, flat and slurred. He was on the piss all right. ‘Hardy… Come.’
The gate swung in and I went up a path to the main door where I went through it all again. Then it was along a carpeted passage, past some enlarged photographs of the building itself and the views it commanded from different angles, to the door of number two. Quite a stroll. These weren’t your little one-bedroom numbers. For the first time the thought occurred to me that O’Connor might have a family. Why else would you need an apartment this size? But then I couldn’t imagine kids growing up in a place like this, pool or no pool. It had the dead feel of too much money and not enough life. It was status living and super secure. Just right in the age of the War against Terror.
I ignored the bell, guessing that it probably chimed something soothing inside, and knocked hard on the door. Even before it opened I had the feeling that things weren’t right. A man like O’Connor doesn’t take half the 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?’