The Undertow

'Why the gun?' he said.

I explained about my Judas goat strategy.

'Thanks a lot,' he said. 'I just love wandering about to be sniped at.'

'I'm going to take steps.'

'Like?'

'The. 38 for one, and hiring Hank Bachelor to watch my back. You remember him, the big Yank with the stun gun?'

'He's capable. Who else?'

I mentioned two other PEAs I could call on and Frank nodded approvingly. 'It's going to cost.'

'What d'you reckon her house in Earlwood's worth? She's selling it.'

Frank agreed and I was relieved to see that he'd apparently got over his obsession with Catherine Heysen. I'd told him she was going to stay with her family where there were willing men and he didn't question me further.

'So we're still in a double-barrelled operation here,' Frank said. 'Trying to latch on to whoever's worried about the old business and getting William on the straight and narrow.'

We reached a bench near the pond where Sallie-Anne Huckstepp had been drowned. We sat and looked out over the murky water. If the predictions were right, it'd one day be a home to cane toads. Those thoughts didn't help my mood.

'There's something else, Frank,' I said. I told him about my encounter with the two detectives and my feeling that someone higher up was taking an active interest in matters concerning Catherine Heysen.

'Jesus,' Frank said, touching his nose. 'It never goes away-the stink. I told you something was wrong about the way the Heysen thing played out.'

'Right,' I said. 'But for all that's happened I don't get a sense of having made much progress.'

'Nothing new in that for you, is there, Cliff?'

'No, I guess not. Things take time to come together and sometimes they just don't.'

We went quiet for a while, staring at the water and the grass and the trees as if the answers lay there. They didn't, and a roar of snarled traffic at a distance cut through the quiet of the park.

'Anyway,' I said, 'you've made some progress on life's journey, Grandad.'

'Fuck you,' he said, but he smiled broadly.

Twenty-four hours after meeting Frank I was in the office wondering whether it was time to hunt down William Heysen when I got a call from Hank Bachelor.

'Bingo,' Hank said. 'That's the expression, isn't it? Some guy made several passes of your place. Then he made a sortie out to Lane Cove. I guess that's where the lady's holed up, right?' 'Right.'

'Went by your place again not long ago. Want me to brace him, Cliff?'

'Shit, no. Just keep tabs on him. Tell me he's driving a red Commodore with a dent in the back.'

'You're psychic.'

'That's right. Describe him, will you.'

'He doesn't get out of the car much. I'd say he's about…'

'You're breaking up.'

'… grey suit… porker… sonofabitch…'

'What? What?'

The line went dead. I swore and sat with scraps of information running through my head. It was half an hour before Hank came back on the line.

'Sorry, Cliff. I lost him. I don't think he spotted me but he turned off and I've gotta admit I lost concentration making the call and when you told me I was breaking up. I backtracked but I couldn't find him.'

'Where are you?'

'Marrickville, around there.'

Things clicked into place. Marrickville. An overweight man in a grey suit. I had a sudden recall of sensations I'd experienced before the baseball bat scrambled my percep-tions-a shape, a smell as his foul breath washed over me. Rex Wain!

'It's okay, Hank. I think I know where to find him. Give me a minute to check it out and I'll call you back.'

I grabbed Frank's notes and flicked through them, searching for Wain's address-the place where his phone was about to be cut off, where he hadn't paid the mortgage or probably the rent for months. I found it and called Hank to give him the address.

'Meet me there in ten minutes. Got your tazer?'

He said he did. I got to my car but the ten minutes stretched to twice that as I battled the late afternoon traffic.

The flat was in a small, red brick block close to the railway line and near the border with Dulwich Hill. Hank's 4WD was parked a little past it and on the other side of the street. He knew his business. You don't park immediately outside a place where you expect trouble and you don't let your car door slam. I pulled in a few car lengths further on and gestured for Hank to join me.

He ambled back, all 190 centimetres and 100 kilos of him. I got out and joined him, making sure we couldn't be seen from the flats.

'Car's there, Cliff. Saw it as I went by.'

I nodded. 'This guy's an ex-cop very down on his luck. He took a shot at the woman I told you about and he used a Louisville slugger on me.'

Hank shook his head. 'Didn't think they made 'em anymore. Still, I get your point. Dangerous guy.'

'Could be. Likely to be slow though. He's screwed up twice. Said he didn't have a car. Now he's got one. Means someone's financing him but if he's got money he's drinking. What was his driving like?'

'Lousy. Shit reactions.'

'He's in flat two. Looks like there's only four so two's bound to be ground floor back. If it's okay with you we go in and you knock. He doesn't know you so he'll probably open up. Maybe have the door on a chain. Got anything handy?'

'You want bolt cutters or a tyre iron?'

Hank is nothing if not well equipped. 'Up to you.'

The short street was quiet. No dogs, no skateboarders, no strollers. A train roared past as Hank opened the rear of the 4WD and extracted a solid pair of bolt cutters which he held down by his leg. We crossed the road and went along the cement drive past the line of four skimpy carports to the back of the flats. A faded red Commodore, showing signs of repaired rust and with a deep dint in the back bumper and rear end, was parked a little skewed to one side, cutting down the space for the neighbouring car to get out.

'That'll make him popular,' Hank said.

'His name's Rex Wain, and I don't think he's ever been popular.'

Flat two featured a cheap screw-on number hanging by one screw. Three steps led to the door and parked beside them was a wheelie bin with a cracked top. Beside it a cardboard box overflowed with newspapers and empty stubbies.

Hank knocked and there was no response. We waited, knocked again, same result. I tore off a section of newspaper and tried the handle. The door opened and I stepped inside, straight into the kitchen, with the. 38 out and ready.

No need. Rex Wain, in his stained grey suit with the missing buttons, lay face up on the greasy lino floor. He was directly under a bright fluorescent light but the brightness didn't worry him even though his eyes were open. He had a dark hole directly between them and a centimetre or two above. The bench and cupboards behind where he'd been standing were spattered like something from Jackson Pollock, but with blood and pink and grey tissue instead ofpaint.

20

It was the second time I'd walked Hank Bachelor into a murder scene.

'How do we play it?' he said.

I backed up and ushered him with me. 'We walk away softly,' I said, 'unless you want to spend the next three days with cops in your face.'

'No thanks.'

The other flats were quiet and the street showed no activity. We went back to our cars and drove off with me leading. A few blocks away I stopped and Hank pulled in behind me. He got out and came up to the Falcon, looking casual but probably not feeling it. He got in behind me.

'Wish I smoked,' he said.

'No you don't. What happens is this: I'll call it in anonymously from a payphone. You were never here.'

'What about you? What's the connection between the dead guy and you?'

I considered. 'Almost none. No paper. One call to his answering machine. Good chance he wiped it.'

'What if he didn't?'

'Then they'll contact me, but you're still in the clear.'