“Hardy!”
I turned to see Meredith beckoning me. He was holding a. 38 Smith amp; Wesson that looked very like mine, also a tape cassette and the Polaroid photographs of me in blinking, blundering action. I approached him and held out my hand for the gun.
“Don’t make me laugh,” he said. “You’re a menace.”
“This was all a set-up, Meredith. It’s not the way it looks. But I’ll tell you one thing-Barry Tobin’s on his way to kill someone who’s supposed to be safe under a witness protection programme.”
“I don’t understand any of this. What?”
“There really isn’t time to explain. A lot of it’s on that tape. If we had time you could call Frank Parker and he’d vouch for me, but I reckon you should take a punt. You believe in the witness protection programme, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’d better get to the Budget Backpacker before Tobin does, or witness protection’ll have about as much credibility as the weather bureau.”
Maybe it was because Meredith was young, maybe because he had imagination, maybe it was a rebellious streak, but he broke a lot of rules in getting himself, me and one of the constables away from the shambles on the Pavarotti in double-quick time. I sat in the back seat of the speeding police car cleaning myself up with bunches of tissues from the box Meredith handed me.
“You’re a mess,” Meredith said.
“So would you be if you had to do the sorts of things I have to do.”
“You must tell me about it sometime.
Right now, I could do with some back-ground on what we’re getting into now.”
I filled him in as best I could, remembering scraps as I went along and back-tracking to fit them into the story.
“Are you following this, Constable Moody?” Meredith said to the driver.
Peter Corris
CH13 — Wet Graves
“No, sir.” Moody’s voice had the harsh note characteristic of the city Aboriginal. I noticed that his hands and the back of his neck were brown. He drove with the economy and decisiveness of a professional.
“Me neither.”
“You would if you heard the tape. Have you got it safe?”
Meredith patted his breast pocket. “Yep. You saying Barry Tobin set up the hit?”
“Yes. And I don’t think it’s the only one he set up. This Prue Harper apparently knows a bit about it, so Jackson said.”
Meredith’s big head nodded. His hair was longish at the back, straggling over his ears and collar. My grandma used to say that untidiness was a sign of honesty. It meant you weren’t always out to make the right impression. On that score, Meredith was honest. “A dying declaration,” he said. “Pity we haven’t got it on tape.”
“Victoria Street, sir,” the driver said.
We’d approached from the Potts Point end of the street, leaving the water below and behind us. There was no telling what route Tobin would take and no knowing whether he’d get there before us or after. I shrugged out of the oilskin, which was making me hot, and finished dabbing at my cuts and abrasions. The aches in my arms and legs would have to take care of themselves. I remembered the last time I’d seen Tobin in action, when he was blasting away with a shotgun and I suddenly felt vulnerable and exposed.
“There it is. Pull over.” Meredith sounded edgy, too. He pointed through the windscreen at the big, three-storey terrace house which had a neon sign over the gate-BUDGET BACKPACKER. “Christ knows how they run these things,” Meredith said. “Do they just deposit the protected witness somewhere they consider safe and leave it at that? Or do they keep a watch?”
“Haven’t you been briefed?” I said.
Meredith glanced at the driver who was sitting rigidly, with his hands on the steering wheel. “I was busy,” he said. “Let’s take a look. You’d better check your weapon, Constable Moody, but for God’s sake don’t use it unless you have to.”
“What about my weapon?” I said.
“What about it?”
“Tobin’s got more reason to kill me than you or Moody. He might think I’ve got the tape.”
Meredith stared ahead at the street and didn’t reply. It was about two in the morning and fairly quiet. Not that it’s ever completely quiet at the Cross. There were people in the street, drifting along, getting close to the end of their day. The street was lined with cars; some of them, the Falcon and Holden station wagons mostly, the vehicles that Backpackers would try to sell the following day. There were cars with resident stickers and others belonging to the people who came to the Cross for alcohol, food and sex, or just to look.
Moody had checked his pistol and returned it to the holster. “I know Prue Harper, sir,” he said.
“Do you?” Meredith said. “That helps.”
“Do you want me to go in and bring her out, sir?”
Meredith opened his door. “It’s not a bad idea. Hardy, you stay here.”
I opened my door. “Not without my gun.”
Meredith hesitated. We were parked about fifty metres from the gate of the house. The street was well lit and the pavement, looking back towards Darlinghurst Road, was like a shooting gallery.
Meredith shook his head. “If you see anything, Hardy, turn on the siren. Show him how it works, constable.”
Moody showed me the switch. I nodded. “Great. I’ll tackle him while he’s suffering temporary blindness and hearing loss.”
“Look,” Meredith said. “Tobin won’t know that Jackson told us anything. He’ll be counting on confusion and delay. It’s very unlikely that he’ll show. We’ll go in and get the woman. That’s it.”
“There’s a lane at the back,” Moody said. “Bound to be another way in.”
“Shit,” Meredith said. “All right, Hardy, here’s your bloody gun. You stay here. I’ll go around the back and check it. Then the constable and I’ll go in the front door. Before sunrise, I hope.”
Meredith retreated around the nearest corner. I sat in the passenger seat next to Moody. I was tense, he seemed relaxed. “How d’you come to know Prue Harper?” I said.
Moody stared ahead. “I know lots of people.”
“What’s she like?”
“Foolish,” he said.
A clutch of people came down the street-three large, blonde young men and a couple of women of the same stamp. They separated. A couple went into the house we were watching; the others crossed the road to the HOTEL CALIFORNIA-BACKPACKERS WELCOME.
“Lucky buggers,” Moody said. “Where do you reckon they’re from?”
I shrugged. “Germany, Sweden.”
“Wouldn’t mind going there myself.” Suddenly, he leaned forward. I tried to see where he was looking.
“What?” I said.
“Look there.” He pointed. “The Tarago.”
A large van was moving slowly towards us. I couldn’t see the driver or anyone else in the van, but Moody could. He gave me a shove which hurt one of the ribs Arch had kicked. “The driver’s checking the place out. Get down!”
We slumped down and the van cruised past. Moody sneaked a look in the rear vision mirror.
“What’s it doing?”
“Stopping,” he said. “Two guys getting out. Skinny bloke and a fat one, real fat. That him?”
“Could be.”
“They’re going around the back.”
“Can’t sit here,” I said. I opened my door and eased out, keeping low. The street was empty now; Moody ran for the corner and I limped after him. The street we turned into was narrow and dark. I could just glimpse the entry to a lane which ran behind the terrace houses fronting Victoria Street. Moody disappeared into the lane. I followed him after looking cautiously around the corner first. I saw shapes moving ahead, darting from one side of the lane to the other. I moved ahead slowly, pressing back against a brick wall.
Two shots, clean and sharp like whipcracks, sounded in quick succession, then I heard Meredith shout. “Stop! Police!”
A third shot, with a heavier note, boomed out, and the lane was suddenly full of echoes and swearing and the sounds of running feet. A figure loomed up in front of me, running fast. Too tall to be Moody, too slight for Meredith. I stepped out and tried to raise my gun, but he arrived too soon. Too soon for him as well. He swung something short and stubby at me; I ducked under the swing and dived forward, hitting about knee high and sending him thumping hard onto the ground, head first. There was a roar as the shotgun he had been carrying hit the brick wall and went off. Pellets flicked around, ricocheting from the bricks and roadway. They missed me. He didn’t move.