Dawn was breaking as we drove north over the bridge to look for somewhere to breakfast. From above, the river appeared more swollen, swifter and much more dangerous than from the shore. I was amazed the bridge had survived and very relieved to reach the other side. Unlike the parks and beaches south of the river - either swept away or littered with flotsam and sewage - the northern beaches had escaped with little more than eroded sand dunes. We found a park with working showers and toilets, and our little petrol stove soon produced coffee, eggs and fried bread. Jon chewed his thoughts along with the food.
After an extended silence he looked across the picnic table, frowned and said quietly, "It has to be MacFife who got Glaze out of the hospital, so we've lost our only weapon – surprise. He'll be on the lookout for trouble and if we're stupid and he gets to us first, you can bet your socks it won't be like a James Bond film where the villain sits and gloats, giving the heroes a chance to turn the tables. It'll be like it was for Scumble. Bang, bang, you're dead."
"I've been thinking the same thing. We have to show the tapes to the cops, get Matthew and Hank to vouch for our upstanding characters, and hope for the best."
"Yep. No point in ending up dead.' Jon agreed. "Unless…' He slipped a sly grin. My heart sank. "Unless what?"
"Unless he comes after us and we have no option but to nobble the bastard."
"Uh-oh."
"Remember how Bill Smith talks?"
"Yes, and I know he took a shine to you, but isn't he a bit old?"
"Maturity adds allure, and think how grateful he'd be to escape that wife!"
"Is this leading anywhere?"
"Say something that sounds like him."
I barked from the back of my throat, "Bill Smith here! Rum show about old Glaze, what?"
"Excellent. A bit more plummy and you've got him to a T. Now, imagine you're him telling MacFife that the cops asked about us, and yesterday he saw us somewhere."
"I don't like the way this is heading.' I cleared my throat and looked away so I wouldn't laugh.
"MacFife? Smith here! Bill Smith. Artist. The police were pestering me the other day about that chappie from the gallery. The one who murdered your wife! Bloody shame! Condolences and all that… What? Couldn't abide the fellow. Damned exhibitionist! Skimpy waistcoat and bare chest. Bad blood. Obviously a pervert. Harrumph. (I nearly choked on that) What's that? What am I ringing for? Ah! Yes! I've seen the young whelp. Thought I'd ring you. Can't be bothered with the boys in blue. Still on mother's milk, most of them. Yes, young Corringe. Saw him the other day in a house by a canal. Thought you should know… Don't thank me, glad to assist.' I was out of breath and my throat was sore.
"Exactly like that!"
"And what do we do once we've lured him and a dozen of his heavies to our non-existent hideout?"
"Dig a pit and cover it with branches and when they stand on it…?"
"A lot of work."
"Shoot them?"
"And then dig a pit and throw them in?"
"A lot of work."
"I thought we'd decided to leave it to the cops?"
"We will. I was just tossing ideas around."
"Well, toss them back where they came from."
It was the memory of a Roald Dahl short story that suggested the plan. I phoned Rory with the idea and he said to give him half an hour. We showered and washed my sleeping bag, cleaned and organised the back of the ute, aired our bedding and inspected the graze beside my eye. It was already healing. The weather was balmy, but our situation was depressing; Scumble's video worthless. Glaze's too.
MacFife could deny all wrongdoing because he had in fact done nothing. He had organised, paid for and provided space for the whole show, but as far as we knew his hands were clean of actual, physical dirt. He was nowhere near the gallery when Max was killed, nor when his wife was raped and murdered. He wasn't outside watching when I was being tossed over the edge, nor at my place with Jon. Nor did he have any dealings with Patrick. As for CC, probably no one would miss her. Maybe after a couple of years someone would ask what had happened to the scrawny bitch who used to manage MacFife's girls, but no one would miss her.
If we ever hoped to restore our reputations we'd have to get MacFife to confess. I tried to imagine what the reaction would be if we breezed up to the police station and told our tale. I probably wouldn't believe it myself.
"What do you reckon MacFife's done with Glaze?"
"Good question. He'll be no use to him for a while; that shoulder was smashed to bits."
"And he took him away before they could operate."
"Unless he's taken him to a private hospital."
"Unlikely."
"Yeah, poor bugger. He's been locked away to make sure he doesn't talk."
"Perhaps he's been put down?"
"MacFife doesn't dirty his own hands. Unless he's got another assassin waiting in the wings he'll be stuck with Glaze until he dies naturally of a bullet wound to the shoulder."
"He's not stupid enough to have any more thugs who know as much as those two."
"I'll bet he's recruiting. Meanwhile, he'll wait and see what happens, hoping Glaze doesn't drop dead and leave him with a body to dispose of."
"Where do you reckon he's keeping him?"
"Tent palace? Gallery? Brothel?"
"Or another place we know nothing about."
The mobile buzzed. It was Rory with a list of requirements. I noted everything and said we'd call him as soon as we'd found somewhere suitable.
Jon read aloud what I'd written. "Empty house on wooden stumps, more than shouting distance from other houses. Not too visible from the road. Electricity on. Water-tight. Not too much rot. We'd better get cracking."
We drove all that day and most of the next without seeing anything remotely satisfactory. All the old houses we passed were either refurbished yuppie residences, or tenanted, or ruins, or cheek by jowl with similar houses. The road terminated at the wrought-iron entrance to a security-gated enclave for the wealthy. A guard came out and waved us away before we'd even stopped.
On the map, the route back to the coast looked promising; in reality it slunk through an industrial wasteland. Row upon row of small factories producing everything from paint to roofing iron, water tanks to glass, ceramics to sawn timber. A fish processing plant belched steam and stench and a used-car yard spread carnival flags over half an acre of restored wrecks. A road branched off to the right. On the right hand corner, a prosperous looking service station and tire repair parlour boasted a queue of cars. Next to it, a four-storeyed replica of a banana presided over the remnants of a failed amusement park.
Jon pulled in to the side of the road. "Straight on, or turn right?"
I tossed a coin and we'd just completed the right turn when something caught my eye. "Stop!' He threw out the anchors and we skidded to a halt. "Did I miss it?"
"What?"
"Whatever it was I was braking for."
"Idiot. I've seen something – perhaps. Pull up over there."
We parked next to a gate in a white picket fence, surmounted by an unnecessarily large sign declaring the place to be “Lovable Landscapes”. The corner block next door, opposite the service station, was an undeveloped couple of hectares of long grass. We got out, locked the ute, nodded to the woman nattering on the telephone in the Swiss-chalet-style office, and browsed among concrete cherubs, coy Venuses, bird-baths of every persuasion, concrete cats, birds, dwarfs, terracotta urns, fountains, garden lights, and an assortment of shrubs, potted palms, cacti and seedling boxes.
Arranged along the back boundary were piles of pavers and bricks, small mountains of gravel, sand, bark-chips and sugar cane residue - everything anyone could possible require to create the garden beautiful. We leaned nonchalantly on the picket fence.
"Try not to be obvious, but what do you see over there in the long grass?"
"An old mango tree and a shed rotting away beneath it."
"A cottage. Probably the old farmhouse."
"Your eyes must be better than mine."
"Worth a look?"
"Tonight?"
"Tonight."
The woman was still on the phone, so we smiled, displayed our empty hands and drove away in search of somewhere to park, make a meal and rest until nightfall.
"It's not rotting. Some of the stumps have sagged, but it's sound."
"As far as we can tell by torchlight."
"And dry."
"As far as we can tell by torchlight."
"And the power's connected."
"And there are no neighbours."
"Everything doctor Rory ordered."
It was filthy, stank of rats, possums and snakes, most of the windows were broken and the chimney had collapsed, but apart from that, it was perfect. I phoned Rory, telling him we'd have it ready in a couple of days. He said it would take him that long to prepare his stuff, so we agreed to meet in forty-eight hours.
We slept the rest of the night in the back of the ute in the park where we'd had breakfast, and the following day bought three sheets of hardboard, a bucket, a broom, paint, detergent, and a set of tools. Under cover of darkness we drove up to the house, unloaded, drove back to a busy section of the road, parked and walked back to the house, making sure we were unobserved.
By the light of low wattage bulbs we painted rough black shapes on the boards and screwed them to the insides of the windows of the largest room. From the road they would look like the shadowy interior. After sweeping and cleaning we repaired the locks and hinges on the outside door at the back that opened into the kitchen, and screwed the front door to the jambs. The last job was to make sure no window could be opened, and to screw shut all internal doors except the one between the kitchen and the large room.
The sun rose, the road became busy, and we collapsed into sleeping bags on the newly cleaned floor, worrying about things we might have forgotten, and arguing about the best way to trap our prey.
"Before I give MacFife my impersonation of Smith, I'll have to ring him to make sure he hasn't got a cold – or died."
"Why not ask him to phone for you while you're at it?"
"You think he'll recognise my voice?"
"Anything's possible."
"I'll disguise it."
"What're you going to say?"
"No idea."
Mrs Smith answered. "Yes?"
"Is Bill there?"
"No! William is not here! Why do you want him?"
"To buy a painting."
"Which one?"
"Can I speak to him?"
"No!"
"I must."
"Then go to Canada!"
"How long has he been there?"
"Who are you? I know your voice.' I disconnected.
"One good idea ruined. The man's not even in the country."
"Good thing. It would have been too easy for MacFife to contact Smith and check. We have to be more subtle."
"You mean this place ain't subtle?' I looked around. "If someone told you your enemy was hiding here, would you approach at night?"
"Not without a small army."
"Exactly, it's an obvious trap. We'll have to meet him somewhere he won't be suspicious, then overpower him and bring him here. Where would he feel secure?"
"Somewhere public?"
"Getting warm."
"Sauna bath?"
"Not that warm."
"Pass."
"A hotel?"
"Excellent! We'll meet him in the Hilton Starlight Lounge."
"Nope – he's used to class."
"Then you've got me. Under the Storey Bridge is the nearest I got to class in Brisbane."
"Do you know that mansion by the river? The one they made into a boutique hotel?"
"No."
"Well, that one."
"And what's the lure?"
"We'll make him a tempting offer. He'll come to our hotel suite to check the goods. We nobble him, bring him back here and torture him until he agrees to confess all to the cops. Simple."
We argued over the details – all the details.
Rory, when he pulled up with Lida at the park the following morning, thought it a better idea than the first, but baulked at being the bait in the trap. "I know nothing about drugs."
"Neither do we. All you have to do is make the phone call, meet him in the foyer of the hotel in Brisbane, smooth-talk him up to your suite without his body-guard, and leave the rest to us commandoes waiting inside."
"He'll bring his body-guard inside."
"We're three to two."
"He'll be armed."
"We've got a .22 and a shotgun."
"He's sure to have another silenced handgun.' Rory pulled a face and turned to Lida. "What do you reckon?"
"We've done more dangerous things."
"Not in Australia."
She shrugged thin shoulders. "Someone's got to make it safe for Peter to return home.' She said it simply, as though impatient with our procrastination, then turned to me. "We'll both need new clothes, then I'll go to the gallery to find how to contact MacFife. How much money can we spend?"
"Whatever it takes.' I gave them my card and pin number, knowing they wouldn't waste a penny. After a quick cup of coffee we left Rory and Lida to turn themselves into believable members of the underworld, and set off for Brisbane to check out the hotel. We'd return the same evening to prepare the house for a guest.
Parking the ute as near the service entrance of the hotel as we could manage, we sauntered down the ramp in new overalls, tool kit slung casually over shoulder.
"Yeah? Whaddaya want?' The man's shaven, sunburnt head merged into a matching thick neck and disappeared into dark blue overalls a size too small. Tufts of red hair sprouted from nostrils, ears and neck. He was tall, wide, suspicious, and our first setback. I'd imagined that, dressed as repair men, we would be able to saunter in unopposed, case the joint, decide on a plan of action, and…
"Sink blockage on the second floor.' How did Jon come up with such brilliant ideas?
"Who are ya?"
"Sunboy's Plumbing.' A woman rang. Said she couldn't get the usual bloke."
"What woman? What's her name?"
"Who?"
"The woman who phoned you?"
"Didn't ask."
"Mrs Robinson?"
We shrugged in unison.
"Hang on while I phone her.' He turned towards his telephone. We scuttled, and drove a couple of blocks.
"Plan B?"
"Plan B."
I changed into my by now slightly rumpled white suit, Jon into casual trousers, crisp white shirt and discount-store designer cap. The guests' part of the hotel was even more splendid than I'd imagined. Creamy stone balustrades, polished brass, liveried footmen, polished wood, a stretch limo in the driveway, elegant patrons sipping wine and coffee on elegant furniture under the elegant shade of ancient trees, between which one could catch elegant glimpses of the river. Even the fluffy clouds chasing each other across the pale blue sky were as elegant as the muted scent of money. We sauntered into the garden bar and ordered beers.
"Christ! At this rate, how much is a room going to cost?"
"No price is too high for our good name."
We were never going to get our money's worth, no matter how long we sat, so after an unsuspicious interval we wandered casually into the main foyer, chatting relaxedly as we headed for the stairs. An impeccably uniformed, slim young man with perfect bone structure, rich olive complexion, thick black straight hair, deep soulful eyes and lips begging to be kissed, stepped in front of us flashing thirty-two perfectly-formed white teeth.
"Excuse me, gentlemen. May I see your room cards?"
I fiddled in my breast pocket, frowned, turned to Jon and said tersely, "You haven't left them in the car have you? After telling me I was getting forgetful.' I dowsed the young god with my best smile. "Back in a minute."
We strolled to the front door, bickering like a normal couple, and forced ourselves to walk slowly back towards the ute, ignominy tickling the base of our spines.
"That was quick thinking,' Jon laughed.
"Had to be. Another minute and I'd have dissolved in a puddle of lust."
"You're easily pleased. The face wasn't too bad, but he had no bum."
"Thank god. I can live again. Perfection's impossible to tolerate, don't you reckon?"
"But… I thought you liked me?"
"Ourselves excepted – naturally. Where to now? Shall we try somewhere less upmarket?"
"The whole world's security mad. Let's go back. I've a better idea that won't cost our entire savings."
"What?"
"I'll tell you when we're out of the traffic. You drive, I'll think."
"Drive where?"
"Where we came from."
"But… "
"But we're too far from home. There's no way MacFife would come down here on his own. We're both out of our depth and sinking. Trust me."
"I find it hard to trust anyone who says that."
"I let you drive – that's evidence of greater than sensible trust in you, so you'll just have to trust me and wait till I'm ready."
It must have been pissing down all day because the river was visibly higher than when we'd driven over the bridge that morning. It was almost dark by the time we arrived at our little park by the ocean. Rain began to fall steadily.
"Surely not more flooding!"
"I bloody hope not. The cops'll be too busy to listen to us."
"At least they won't be chasing us."
I parked beside the toilet block and changing rooms, and we ate our hamburgers in silence. Jon's plan was simple and obvious. Too obvious? But I couldn't think of anything better. I felt sticky, cold and stale.
"Fancy a shower?"
"It'll be cold."
"Better than stinking."
It was cold, short and invigorating. My cloud of pessimistic thoughts thinned, the plan began to seem plausible, and we each managed forty pull-ups, hanging from the rafters. A vehicle drove past, slowed, backed up, and turned into the parking area, headlights glaring through the high windows. We dropped to the floor and threw on clothes. It was probably the cops, thinking our ute looked suspicious. That'd be the ultimate stupidity, getting picked up for something idiotic like this, having our driver's licences checked and...
We stared at each other in dismay. The headlights went out, plunging us into darkness. A car door slammed. Someone coughed. We didn't dare breathe. At least I'd locked the ute.
"Peter? Jon? You in there?"
We collapsed in relief. Of course! We'd told Rory to meet us here. Affecting nonchalance we sauntered out, congratulated them on finding the place in the dark, and told them to follow us.
The road in front of the old house was deserted and all the businesses except the service station were closed, so we drove up to the house along the overgrown, but firm driveway. As soon as the gear was unloaded, Rory and I drove out and parked the utes a block away.
In the large, dry and relatively warm room, we assembled a three-metre diameter cylindrical cage of two-metre high, diamond-mesh fencing. Rings screwed into the high wooden ceiling held it up, black polythene tubing, split along its length, accommodated the bottom and insulated it from the floor. Large staples hammered into the floor over the tubing prevented lateral movement. A metre at the join was left unfastened for entry.
A heavy-duty cable, its phase wire securely fixed to the cage, the earth and neutral wires taped back, was fed through a hole in the floor and under the house to the switchboard, just outside the back door. Rory turned off the main switch, replaced the wire leading to the electric range with the phase wire of the lead from our cage, and switched on. Nothing happened. He let out a sigh and mopped his forehead. "Thank Christ for that!"
"Why?"
"Because, Lida my love, it means the cage is properly insulated."
"What would have happened if it wasn't?"
"The fuse would've blown.' He pulled the fuse and quadrupled the thickness of the wire. "That'll cope with a short-circuit. Now, let's see if it works."
He fetched a blade of grass and held the tip against the cage, sliding it up until his fingers touched the wire, repeating the process in bare feet. "Barely a tingle. The hardwood floor's an insulator."
"It's not going to keep anyone in for long then."
"Patience, Jon.' Outside again, Rory crawled beneath the house, screwed one end of a heavy wire into the floorboards, the other to the earth rod below the meter box.
My turn - but I felt only a tingle.
Rory nodded knowledgably and scrubbed soapy water over the floor inside the cage until it was darkly moist.
Jon's turn. Even with his shoes on, the first touch of the grass on the wire gave him such a fright he dropped it. "Hell, that's a bugger! Will it kill him?"
"If he hangs on to it. If he tests it with the back of his hand it'll throw him away. The voltage isn't much, only two-forty, but it's alternating and there's a fair current. I'll pull the fuse in case a rat wanders through and electrocutes himself."
"Now all we have to do is get MacFife into it.' Lida was looking apprehensive. "The receptionist at the gallery wouldn't tell us where he lives, but said he comes in every morning for a few hours."
"Excellent. Let's see you in your new clothes."
They changed quickly and stood shyly. I was glad we'd dropped the idea of dressing them up as wealthy criminals. Rory would always look like a peasant, and new clothes could never conceal Lida's spiritual wounds. Some refugees seem to emerge virtually unscathed; Lida was a living memorial to man's inhumanity. Haunted eyes gazed like timid animals from their burrows. A gangster's moll she wasn't.
"I… I don't think I'll be able to act the part you suggested, Peter.' Rory wrapped a muscled arm around her waist.
"You could,' I said, "but there's been a change of plan."
By the time I'd related our abortive attempt to case the hotel, they were laughing, relaxed and relieved. "What's the new scheme?"
"The other day Peter reckoned there'd be no flak over Cherie Culworth's murder because no one would mourn her. But what if there is a mourner?' Jon gazed expectantly at Lida. "You, Lida, are CC's illegitimate daughter adopted out at birth. Recently, you decided to find your birth mother. She was overjoyed and you met for the first time on Sunday the eighteenth of August – that date being forever emblazoned on your soul - and you got on like a house on fire, or however women get on. She asked you to keep it a secret from her employer for a while.
"You arranged to meet again the following Sunday, the twenty-fifth, with your husband, but she didn't turn up. You've been hoping she would contact you, but after four days with no news you're worried something may have happened. Before going to the police, you thought it best to disobey her and ask her boss. How am I going?"
Lida's mouth was open; Rory frowned. "MacFife'll just say the lovely lady never turned up for work and he was going to contact the cops himself."
"Right, so then you'll ask to see her things, because she told you she was living upstairs in the gallery flat, and had an heirloom brooch she wanted you to have – you can describe anything you like, he won't know. Hysterical crying and sobs should get you shoved upstairs if there are any patrons. If there aren't, have a fainting spell, get MacFife into the office, immobilise him, shove him into a large sack, chuck him into the back of the ute, and bring him back here."
"On my own?"
"Rory will be with you."
"What say they won't let Rory upstairs?"
"We'll be there."
"How?"
"Peter has a key to the back door. We'll make sure we're ensconced before you beard the lion in his den."
"What?"
"We'll be hidden upstairs before you go into the gallery to see him."
"And how would you suggest we immobilise the lion, once we've bearded him?' Rory was sceptical.
Jon looked at me, I shrugged.
"Chloroform,' said Lida simply. "That's how everyone does it."
"If you're strong enough to hold him for half a minute until it works.' Rory was less than impressed. "What if he has a body-guard?"
"Pull a stiletto from your garter and threaten to pick out his eyes while Rory ties him in knots.' Lida whitened. "How did you know?' She turned to Rory. He shook his head.
"I didn't know. I was just raving."
Lida sat motionless. Rory wrapped her in his arms and comforted the silent weeping. I felt rotten.
Jon busied himself cleaning up.
Lida shook herself free and apologised.
"Sorry. I'm fine now. She swallowed. "But what about my accent?"
"If he mentions it, your foster parents were immigrants and you picked it up. It's only noticeable when you're nervous or excited."