Cross Kill

Sixteen

Two days ago Napper had been hassled by his solicitor, then by a whole lot of women snapping wet towels at his legs. This morning his ex-wife’s solicitor had had a go at him, ringing him at work, reminding him of the court order, reminding him he was nine thousand bucks behind. So now Napper was knocking on a door in Richmond, a move he hoped would help him reduce that nine thousand.

The house was owned by a man called Malan and it presented a face full of bluster and threat. ‘No trespassing’ and ‘protected by electronic surveillance’ stickers were plastered to the fence, gate, windows and doors, and, judging by the sounds coming from inside, the front door had been triple-locked. As if that would keep the junkies out. Napper waited.

Malan opened the door. He was slight, greying, pursing unhappy lips in a wedge-shaped head. His face always seemed out of kilter to Napper, as if something on it was missing or lacking in size. ‘Councillor Malan himself,’ Napper said. ‘Just the man I want to see.’

Malan regarded him carefully. ‘What about?’

‘Business.’

Malan stepped aside and extended his arm into the hall. The house smelt of hot stale air. Napper saw four cats in the doorway, come to see who had arrived. Cat fur was caught in the hall rug. Malan led the way to a back room and waited while Napper sat down before sitting himself. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t know if you remember our little talk a while back,’ Napper said. ‘That ALP fundraising bash?’

‘I remember it.’

Malan was being sour and wary, so Napper held up a calming hand. ‘Take it easy, old son. I’m not here to arrest you.’

‘It was just talk,’ Malan said. ‘I was drunk. You haven’t got a thing to arrest me on.’

Napper glanced around the dim room. ‘You need a skylight in here.’ He sorted idly through some leaflets and magazines in the rack next to his chair. ‘Ah, here we are.’ It was a handbill. It read Stop the Asian Invasion.

Malan said, ‘Somebody slipped it under the door.’

‘Sure they did.’

Malan scowled. ‘Spit it out, Napper.’

Napper rested his forearms on his knees and butted his big head into the space between them. ‘You remember how you told me Eddie Ng has got the numbers to make mayor next month?’

Malan nodded curtly.

‘Well, I’ ve been reading the local rag, listening around the local waterholes. I reckon you’re right.’

‘Boat people own half of Victoria Street,’ Malan said passionately. ‘Now they want to take over local government.’

‘Exactly,’ Napper said. ‘I mean, where will it end?’

Malan said nothing. They were watching each other. Napper spoke first. ‘What are your chances of making mayor, if Councillor Ng was out of the running?’

‘First rate.’

Napper leaned back. He tried to lace his fingers behind his head, but that strangled his circulation. He swung forward again. ‘I’ve been going over what you said, something about a fear campaign?’

‘It was just talk.’

‘No it wasn’t. You’re a worried man. I’m a worried man. I grew up around here. I don’t like to see it going downhill any more than you do.’

Malan’s long fingers slipped in and out of his pockets as if searching for somewhere to rest. ‘What have you got in mind?’

Napper said quietly, ‘Eddie Ng runs a restaurant just around the corner from Church Street. You said it yourself, he walks up and down and they all love him. We need to wipe the smile off his face.’ Napper tried folding his arms. ‘I’m your man.’

‘It’s not enough to wipe the smile off his face. He’s got to resign from Council.’

‘And we can pursuade him. An anonymous strike out of nowhere. He’ll get the message. If he doesn’t, we’ll hit again.’

Malan watched him for a while. ‘What’s in it for you?’

Nothing grand or elaborate, according to the look Napper gave him. ‘Order restored, the white man on top. Plus that three thousand you mentioned.’

‘I didn’t mention any three thousand.’

Napper was hard and precise. ‘Mate, that’s exactly what you did mention. I made a note of it in my book after.’

‘Supposing I had three thousand to give you. What do you propose? Beat him up? Bomb his place? He lives above the restaurant.’

‘His car,’ Napper said. ‘People get attached to their cars. Damage one and you cause a lot of grief. The restaurant is too risky, too many people could get hurt.’

‘How will you do it?’

‘A small charge.’

‘A timer?’ Malan leaned forward, his face alight. ‘A radio signal maybe?’

‘Too fussy,’ Napper said. ‘Mercury. That way the victim detonates the bomb himself.’

‘How so?’

‘The object is to throw a scare into him, correct?’

Malan nodded.

‘Two little pools of mercury in the boot of the car or somewhere,’ Napper said, ‘a small lump of explosive, plus blasting cap and battery. The target gets into the car, the motion rocks the mercury pools so they run together, there’s an electrical connection, pow! The beauty of it is, the explosion is directly related to his getting into the car. It doesn’t hurt him, blows the boot lid up maybe, but it sure as hell scares the shit out of him.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as I get paid,’ Napper said.

‘How do I know this isn’t a set-up?’

Napper leaned forward again. He was quiet and solid when he said, ‘I’ll level with you-I need the money. Plus I can’t stand these chinks.’ He got heated. ‘Jesus Christ, the Department’s even got me down for a community policing course, learn how to get on with the bastards, can you believe it?’

‘Three thousand.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll make it easy for you. Half now, half on delivery.’

He declined tea or coffee. He told Malan that he wanted to get moving on this. They left the house and walked through to the Westpac on Bridge Road. Half an hour later, Napper was back at the station with fifteen hundred in his pocket.

At one o’clock a call was put through to his desk phone. A woman’s voice said, ‘Sergeant Napper, please.’

‘You’ve got him.’

The woman had started strongly, but now she was silent. ‘Can I help you?’ Napper said.

‘Eileen Rossiter here.’

‘He got remand, Eileen. Nothing I could do about it. These things aren’t up to me.’

‘I know. I’ve been to seen him.’

Again she clammed up, so Napper said, ‘Neither of us is getting any younger, Eileen.’

She said with a rush, ‘What are the chances of bail? I mean, is it too late?’

‘Theoretically, no, the powers that be could put in a good word, kind of thing. But you know, they’d have to have a reason.’

‘Maybe I can give you one,’ Eileen said.

‘Like what?’

‘Information.’

‘Depends on the quality of the information.’

‘Oh, it’s quality all right.’ The voice was hard and certain now.

Napper said, ‘Your old man put you up to this? He’s heard something?’

‘This is nothing to do with him. You keep him out of it.’

Napper’s face creased, knowing he’d found a lever. ‘Just you and me and the gatepost, right, Eileen? When can you come in?’

‘I’m not bloody coming in there.’

Napper knew she wasn’t. He wanted to hear the strain in her voice, that’s all. ‘Could meet you somewhere, I suppose. This afternoon?’

‘Lounge bar of the Barleycorn, two o’clock,’ Eileen Rossiter said, and there was a click in his ear.

The Barleycorn was out on two counts: one, simply because the woman hadn’t bothered to check first if the place and the time suited him; two, because he met one of his regular snouts in the Barleycorn. Maybe He could groom Eileen Rossiter as a snout; if so, he wouldn’t want to meet her on the same patch of ground.

He left the station and got to the Barleycorn forty minutes before Eileen Rossiter was due. He walked through the place quickly, saw that she wasn’t waiting for him, and went back to the car. She arrived shortly before two. No one followed her in. Napper crossed the road to a public phone and called the Barleycorn, asking for the lounge bar. ‘I was supposed to meet a friend there, Eileen Rossiter? Woman about fifty, short dark hair?’

‘Just come in. Want me to put her on?’

‘Could you do us a favour? Tell her I’ll meet her in the coffee shop across the road, but I’ll be half an hour late.’

He went back to the car to wait, checking the street automatically. Eileen came out a moment later and walked across the road to the coffee shop. Napper, taking in her strong face, her comfortable flesh, was betting that an afternoon coffee and Danish pastry were more appealing to her than a drink in the Barleycorn. When she was inside the shop he crossed the road to join her.

He found her peering at cakes and pastries displayed in a glass cabinet. Sensing him, she straightened, looked appraisingly at him. ‘You were watching me.’

Napper said nothing, hoping stillness and silence would rattle her. Instead, she snorted. ‘Well, you’re a bundle of laughs. Coffee? Something to eat?’ Without waiting, she said to the woman behind the counter, ‘Two cappuccinos, one apricot Danish, one cheese,’ and led him to a corner table.

They were the only customers. Napper could smell fresh coffee. He realised that he hadn’t had lunch. Eileen Rossiter smiled at him, patted a chair. It discomposed Napper. It meant Eileen felt sure of her ground. For some reason then, he wondered what it would be like to touch her. Sure, she was getting on a bit, but there was something about her body, a kind of pneumatic appeal. To wipe the smile off her face, he said, ‘I’m not promising anything.’

‘Of course not.’

Napper said nothing. The ball was in her court. All he could do was see how she played it.

‘A deal,’ she said. ‘Niall gets bail, maybe a suspended sentence-’

‘No way.’

‘I’ll settle for bail. In return, you get some interesting information.’

‘What kind of information?’

‘Deal, first.’

‘I can’t offer anything for your boy until I know what this is all about. I want quality information, not the name of some bloke who’s been stealing hubcaps.’

‘All right, I’ll give you a name. The Mesics.’

Napper was irritated. He had no illusions about himself. He was a plodding beat cop who’d just scraped through his exams to make sergeant, he was uniform, not one of the flash boys in CIB, and he’d barely heard of the Mesics. ‘What have they got to do with me?’

‘Someone’s going to do them over.’

‘So?’

So Eileen told him who was going to do over the Mesics, and this time it was a name he did know well, the kind of name that earned a commendation for the copper that put it behind bars.