rental car. He stripped back the bloodied jacket flaps and saw the
punctured inside pocket. Wyatt groaned softly. It had been an unlucky shot, and
not only for Finn. He tugged free the sandwich bag. Blood had got to the money
and there was no mistaking the force and nature of the damage left behind when
the slug had ploughed through the bag on its way into Finns chest.
A kind of fury welled in Wyatt. He
choked off a curse, stood up, kicked the body. Then he forced himself to be still
and think. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his prints from the sandwich bag,
put the ruined money back in Finns pocket. He cleaned his fingers and used the
handkerchief to retrieve Finns car keys.
He thought about the gun. He needed
it but the Colt was dangerous to him now: if he were ever caught with it in his
possession, a ballistics check would tie him to Finns murder. The guns
definition had to be altered. Wyatt knelt at the base of the pump again,
reached further under it, dragged out a small wooden box. It was a service kit
for the Colt: gun oil, cleaning rods and brushes, spare seven-shot clip, spare
barrel and firing pin. Wyatt took the gun apart and replaced the barrel and the
firing pin. Neither had been used before, except in the factory. In effect, it
was a new gun, and the only killings a forensic expert could tie it to hadnt
happened yet.
Finally, still protecting his hands
with the handkerchief, he searched Stolle. A wallet in the mans jacket yielded
one hundred and eighty dollars. Wyatt pocketed the money. He poked through the
wallet: credit cards, drivers licence, PI licence in the name Macarthur
Stolle, and a couple of cards admitting Stolle to exclusive gaming rooms at
Jupiters, Wrest Point and Monte Carlo casinos.
Stolle groaned and stirred. Wyatt
kicked him upright. You mentioned five thousand dollars. Where is it?
Stolle grimaced, both hands over his
face. That was a cunt of a thing to do.
Five thousand. Where is it?
Stolle concentrated finally. You
get it when we get on the plane to Brisbane, not before.
Wyatt walked to the door and out. Forget
it.
He didnt have his two thousand but
he did have close to two hundred and a gun and the keys to Finns car. By three
oclock he was in Sorrento, on Port Phillip Bay. When the ferry to Queenscliff
left at four, he was the first aboard. At the other end he didnt drive to
Geelong but stayed where he was, in a rental van at the edge of a small oval a
short walk from the beach.
That evening he called Harbutt
again.
* * * *
Twelve
They
met in a docklands pub called the Prince Patrick. It was Harbutts choice, a
squat corner pub with dirty stucco above cold blue tiles on the outside walls.
Inside, the carpets were scorched and worn; an oily film of smoke and alcohol and
urine vapour clung to the mirrors and shelves. The threadbare towelling on the
bar was ashy and beer-soaked. At ten oclock in the morning there were plenty
of drinkers, shift workers clocking on and off work or merely evading it. The
air was heavy and malty. It was an old smell, surly and male.
Harbutts hand was shaking. He hadnt
shaved and his eyes were red-rimmed.
Been on a bender? Wyatt asked him.
Harbutt drained his beer and lit a
cigarette. Wyatt was drinking coffee.
Wyatt tried again. Not working
today?
Harbutt looked at him. Mate, they
gave me the push. Me and two hundred others. Another two hundred by the end of
the year.
Wyatt watched Harbutt carefully,
saying nothing. An edge of hunger was a useful quality in the man you were pulling
a job with. Desperation or the shakes werent.
Hair of the dog, Harbutt said,
ordering another beer. Ill be right. Its the shock, thats all.
Yeah, it would be.
Harbutt laughed. It turned into a
cough. Mate, youve never done a days work for someone else in your life,
except maybe when you were a kid. Never pulled in a fortnightly pay packet. No
wife and kids to provide for.
You havent got a wife and kids.
You know what I mean. Never had
punctured inside pocket. Wyatt groaned softly. It had been an unlucky shot, and
not only for Finn. He tugged free the sandwich bag. Blood had got to the money
and there was no mistaking the force and nature of the damage left behind when
the slug had ploughed through the bag on its way into Finns chest.
A kind of fury welled in Wyatt. He
choked off a curse, stood up, kicked the body. Then he forced himself to be still
and think. He took out a handkerchief, wiped his prints from the sandwich bag,
put the ruined money back in Finns pocket. He cleaned his fingers and used the
handkerchief to retrieve Finns car keys.
He thought about the gun. He needed
it but the Colt was dangerous to him now: if he were ever caught with it in his
possession, a ballistics check would tie him to Finns murder. The guns
definition had to be altered. Wyatt knelt at the base of the pump again,
reached further under it, dragged out a small wooden box. It was a service kit
for the Colt: gun oil, cleaning rods and brushes, spare seven-shot clip, spare
barrel and firing pin. Wyatt took the gun apart and replaced the barrel and the
firing pin. Neither had been used before, except in the factory. In effect, it
was a new gun, and the only killings a forensic expert could tie it to hadnt
happened yet.
Finally, still protecting his hands
with the handkerchief, he searched Stolle. A wallet in the mans jacket yielded
one hundred and eighty dollars. Wyatt pocketed the money. He poked through the
wallet: credit cards, drivers licence, PI licence in the name Macarthur
Stolle, and a couple of cards admitting Stolle to exclusive gaming rooms at
Jupiters, Wrest Point and Monte Carlo casinos.
Stolle groaned and stirred. Wyatt
kicked him upright. You mentioned five thousand dollars. Where is it?
Stolle grimaced, both hands over his
face. That was a cunt of a thing to do.
Five thousand. Where is it?
Stolle concentrated finally. You
get it when we get on the plane to Brisbane, not before.
Wyatt walked to the door and out. Forget
it.
He didnt have his two thousand but
he did have close to two hundred and a gun and the keys to Finns car. By three
oclock he was in Sorrento, on Port Phillip Bay. When the ferry to Queenscliff
left at four, he was the first aboard. At the other end he didnt drive to
Geelong but stayed where he was, in a rental van at the edge of a small oval a
short walk from the beach.
That evening he called Harbutt
again.
* * * *
Twelve
They
met in a docklands pub called the Prince Patrick. It was Harbutts choice, a
squat corner pub with dirty stucco above cold blue tiles on the outside walls.
Inside, the carpets were scorched and worn; an oily film of smoke and alcohol and
urine vapour clung to the mirrors and shelves. The threadbare towelling on the
bar was ashy and beer-soaked. At ten oclock in the morning there were plenty
of drinkers, shift workers clocking on and off work or merely evading it. The
air was heavy and malty. It was an old smell, surly and male.
Harbutts hand was shaking. He hadnt
shaved and his eyes were red-rimmed.
Been on a bender? Wyatt asked him.
Harbutt drained his beer and lit a
cigarette. Wyatt was drinking coffee.
Wyatt tried again. Not working
today?
Harbutt looked at him. Mate, they
gave me the push. Me and two hundred others. Another two hundred by the end of
the year.
Wyatt watched Harbutt carefully,
saying nothing. An edge of hunger was a useful quality in the man you were pulling
a job with. Desperation or the shakes werent.
Hair of the dog, Harbutt said,
ordering another beer. Ill be right. Its the shock, thats all.
Yeah, it would be.
Harbutt laughed. It turned into a
cough. Mate, youve never done a days work for someone else in your life,
except maybe when you were a kid. Never pulled in a fortnightly pay packet. No
wife and kids to provide for.
You havent got a wife and kids.
You know what I mean. Never had
Similar Books
