Loman ran a big place, taking up one-third of a block at the end of a shopping centre. The N in his name on the sign above the entrance was back to front. The main building was a long, low hardware supermarket fronting onto the street. Behind it was a large storage shed next to a paved area cluttered with do-it-yourself garden shed kits, sample brick walls, and piles of soil and gravel in shades ranging from pinkish-grey to black. A high pine-board fence surrounded the whole place.
In the far corner, well back from the street, was Loman’s house, a four-room transportable building resting on wooden blocks. Letterman approached it cautiously, alert for a dog or a nightwatchman, or kids taking short cuts home from the video library. Holding a container of petrol in each hand, he waited for five minutes, watching and listening. He could hear the sound of a television set coming faintly from inside Loman’s house. When he was satisfied, Letterman ran doubled-over to the back door. He didn’t trip-there was nothing to trip on. The yard surrounding the house looked as if it had been swept to within an inch of its dull life.
Letterman never ate or drank before a job. He felt concentrated, full of nerve endings.
This had to look right. He went from window to window of Loman’s house, checking for security alarms. He supposed a man as neat as Loman was, a petty crim like Loman, would have some sort of security fitted, and he found it on every window, a silver strip that would activate an alarm if it were cut.
In other circumstances windows like these were no problem for Letterman. He’d simply pry out the putty surround and-move the whole pane aside. But this had to look innocent all the way.
He went around to the front door. It was in darkness and faced a side wall of the storage shed. Putting the litre containers down, he bent to examine the lock. It looked pretty standard. He took out his folder of lock picks and went to work.
There were twenty picks in his kit. He’d got them-and lessons in how to use them-from a crim he’d put in Long Bay five years ago. They were long, flat gunmetal strips with small indentations at various stages and angles along both edges. The kit also contained key blanks, small pry bars and ratchets, but he wouldn’t be needing them tonight, only the raking bar. He selected a pick, inserted it into the lock and pushed against the first tumbler pin. Then, inserting the raking bar, he raked the tumbler pin open. He repeated this operation several times, pushing the pick deeper and deeper past the opened tumbler pins.
He reached the end, straightened to ease the strain on his back, and opened the door. He didn’t push it fully open but waited and listened. Satisfied that no alarm had gone off, he pushed the door open in stages. Still no alarm sounded. It probably meant that Loman had separate systems for the door and the windows. He’d turn off the door system when he was at home, but generally leave the window system on.
Letterman closed the door. He had stepped straight into a lounge room. The television set wasn’t here, though, it was in one of the other rooms.
The bedroom in fact. Through the partly open door he could see Loman stretched out on a monastic-looking single bed, watching a night football game. He wore short pyjamas and a dressing gown. His ‘good’ leg was horribly scarred. The other was a stump. The plastic leg was on a chair next to the bed. Apparently Loman felt the cold, for a bar heater glowed on a floor rug in the centre of the room.
Letterman didn’t waste time. He didn’t bother with pointing out Loman’s sins to him but ran into the room and stunned him with a heavy blow to the temple. He hit him again.
When he was sure that Loman was fully unconscious he turned off the bar heater. Next he took out his knife and gouged holes in the caps of each petrol container with the sharp, narrow point. He squirted the room with petrol-onto the walls, the wardrobe, the ceiling and the curtains. Apart from the area around the bar heater on the floor, he sprayed high, knowing that the arson squad would be suspicious of intensive burning on the floor or low down on the walls. He made sure the ceiling got plenty. He was relying on it catching early and collapsing on Loman.
Finally he soaked the quilt and dragged a corner of it down to touch the bar heater. Then he turned the heater on and hurriedly stepped back into the doorway. The bed caught at once. When the flames were strong, he tossed the petrol containers onto the bed. They wouldn’t last long.
By nine o’clock Letterman was back at his motel arranging an early wake-up call. He showered, packed his bag, and checked his reserves of cash. Thirty thousand dollars-eighteen for Snyder, twelve for expenses. He thought about informing Sydney where he was going but changed his mind. He was his own boss, after all. He didn’t have to report in every five minutes like one of their goons. They’d get their report, their pictures, when the job was done.
NINETEEN
Snyder was the last passenger to board the 8.10 am flight to Adelaide on Monday morning. Letterman, stretched out comfortably in first-class with the Age for company, saw him come through the door looking like someone who’d always made someone wait. Letterman wanted to slam the heavy, cocksure face. Snyder was a real picture this morning: crisp white overalls again, a chain caught in his throat hair, chunky hippie rings on each hand. For footwear he was wearing dazzling white gym boots. His hair frizzed, catching the light. Letterman, on the other hand, was dressed in a light grey off-the-rack suit from David Jones. He thought, not for the first time, that all kinds flew these days. They didn’t make an effort. They flew looking as if they were slopping around the supermarket on a Saturday morning.
At least Snyder didn’t make eye contact. ‘From now on we don’t know each other,’ Letterman had told him the day before. He watched as Snyder swaggered through to the economy seats, his cabin baggage knocking the shoulders of passengers seated on the aisle. It was a tough, lightweight aluminium case. His radio gear, Letterman thought.
Breakfast was tinned fruit, toast and watery scrambled eggs. Letterman had the toast and two cups of coffee. It gave him indigestion and he had to ask the stewardess for Quick-eze.
Fifty minutes after take-off they landed at West Beach airport, filed off the plane and across the tarmac. A high wind, laden with hot, oily aviation fumes gusted across the airfield. As usual a couple of uniforms and a plain-clothes man watched them come through the glass doors into the luggage-claim area. Letterman wondered if they had him marked as a cop. He knew he looked like a cop. Despite the last couple of years, he still thought, moved and spoke like a cop.
He collected his bag and reclaimed his automatic from the airline security officer. It was a little.25 loaded with hollow-points. Letterman liked to work close- three or four rounds to the head, the hollow-points breaking up and mashing the brain. He’d had a permit to transport a gun on domestic flights since his days on the force. The airlines never questioned him about it, simply took the gun and gave it back to him at the other end.
Then he went out to the taxi rank. There were signs up advising a passenger-share scheme, but Letterman took one look at the tracksuits and gum-snapping jowls waiting in line and thought fuck that for a joke. He told the driver of the first vacant taxi, ‘City bus station,’ and got into the back seat. Snyder, he noticed, was getting into a cab with a fluffed-up blonde teenager and her younger sister, baring his teeth at them like a pig at a trough.
‘Good flight?’
Letterman looked up. The driver had his head cocked, watching him in the rear-view mirror.
‘Just drive,’ Letterman said flatly.
The driver opened and closed his mouth, shifted his shoulders around and drove. The traffic was sparse. They reached the bus station in twelve minutes. Letterman paid and got out. Three other taxis rolled up as he closed his door, Snyder’s among them. Snyder got out. Letterman saw him wave at the blonde as the taxi departed. He saw the blonde curl her lip at Snyder and go into a huddle with her sister.