Kick Back

Thirty-nine

It could’ve been anybody.

If someone had money to spend, skills to offer, Ivan did business with them. He would have made enemies over the years. But Ivan worked from the shop, not his house. Whenever Wyatt had bought goods and information from him in the past, it had always been negotiated at the shop. They’d planned the Frome insurance job at the shop.

The body slumped in the comfortable armchair, the unactivated alarm system, spoke of a visitor, someone known or expected.

Here was one twist following hard on the heels of another, and the link was Sugarfoot. Wyatt speculated, testing explanations. Sugarfoot is unnerved by his footbridge plan and asks Ivan to help him. But Ivan is angry with him, says the wrong thing, and Sugarfoot puts a bullet in him. Wyatt could sense Sugarfoot out there somewhere, too afraid to go to the footbridge, too afraid to go home, but still stewing with skewed logic on all the chances denied him, all the debts he was owed.

Wyatt slipped out of the house and drove to a public telephone and called the safe house. Pedersen answered on the first ring.

‘He didn’t show,’ Wyatt said.

Pedersen was silent. Then he said slowly, ‘Hobba didn’t show here. Anna did, but not Hobba.’

Wyatt tensed. ‘But you told him.’

Pedersen’s voice rose. ‘Couldn’t get hold of him. Been ringing all afternoon. Jesus Christ.’

‘You there?’ he said, when Wyatt didn’t respond.

‘I’ve just been to Ivan Younger’s,’ Wyatt replied.

‘Yeah?’

‘He’s dead. Been shot.’

There was a pause. Wyatt continued, ‘I’d say Sugar has finally flipped.’

‘He had a grudge against Hobba,’ Pedersen said.

‘I’ll get back to you,’ Wyatt said. ‘You and Anna stay put. Don’t let anyone in.’

He got back in the rental car. It was seven o’clock and the football fans, refreshed by hot showers, were now pouring into the city. Music called from car to car, as if a nation were mustering. Young teeth gleamed at Wyatt from the dim interiors of customised Holdens, and stereos throbbed like eager hearts. All he could do was hunt for gaps, brake, crawl along.

The traffic jerked onto Racecourse Road. At the entrance to the Housing Commission flats he turned in and parked the car, angling it for a clear run to the street.

He looked up at the looming towers. Human shapes dreamed in many of the windows, backlit by the blue light of television screens. Curtains were open. It was understandable: no-one to see in, and a perfect view across parkland to the fingering skyscrapers of the city.

As he stood there looking up, two girls went by, watching him covertly, liking his hooked face and his air of controlled energy. One, more daring than the other, said, ‘It’s not for sale.’

He flashed a grin at her, but couldn’t afford to have them remember his face, so he turned and walked away. ‘I don’t bite,’ called the girl to his departing back. He raised his hand.

Once inside the lift, he pulled on latex gloves and put his hands in his pockets. He got off at the eighth floor. When the doors closed behind him, he waited and listened. The heavy air carried the chill of winter, laced with food odours-curry, fried onion, soggy vegetables-and it trembled with cop show sirens and shrill advertisements. He noticed the scratched wood and scuffed walls. Then a door creaked in a breeze and he saw by the number that it was Hobba’s. Light spilled out, onto the grimy corridor floor.

That was bad. He turned to get away from there. A voice said, ‘Excuse me, sir.’

A young policeman had appeared at the bend in the corridor. He stood well clear of Wyatt, his right hand at his revolver butt. He had wary eyes above a smudge of adolescent moustache.

‘Do you live here, sir?’

Wyatt nodded at Hobba’s door, keeping his gloved hands in his pockets. ‘Just calling on a friend,’ he said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘I think you’d better speak to Sergeant Hickey, sir,’ the policeman responded.

‘What happened? Is Rob all right?’

‘Knock on the door, please, sir.’

Wyatt tapped on Hobba’s half-open door, positioning his body to obscure the latex glove. The door swung further open. All Hobba’s lights seemed to be on. The air smelt stale. A print had been pulled off the wall, the telephone stand was overturned, and through the doorway at the end he saw heaped clothing, scraps of paper and empty, dumped drawers. Then a uniformed figure loomed in the hallway, blocking the light, and an irritable voice said, ‘Who the hell are you?’

Behind Wyatt the young policeman said, ‘I found him in the corridor, Sergeant. He says he’s acquainted with the occupant.’

‘Well I never. Acquainted with the occupant.’

Hickey looked searchingly at Wyatt. He was slight, quick-looking, with a face and manner inclined to sarcasm. ‘That’s nice,’ he said. ‘Just popped around, did you?’

Wyatt shrugged. ‘Well…’

‘What’s your name, sunshine?’

‘Lake,’ Wyatt said. ‘Look, sorry if I barged in on something. I’ll just-’

‘Lake. You got form, Lake?’

‘Me? No way’

‘Didn’t get acquainted with the old Hobba in Pentridge, by any chance?’

‘Not me,’ Wyatt said. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You tell me,’ Hickey said. He stood back and motioned for Wyatt to enter the flat. ‘In the kitchen,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch anything. I mean anything.’

Wyatt was prepared to see Hobba sprawled on the floor, but the kitchen was empty. Every surface had been dusted for fingerprints. Doors and drawers hung open and dirty plates were heaped in the sink. The contents of the refrigerator were scattered over the floor. Wyatt stopped just inside the door, consciously positioning himself so that both cops would have to stand beyond the table, but Hickey prodded his shoulder and said, ‘No, sunshine, other side.’

Wyatt walked around the table. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘I just came around to say hello.’ He was playing the indignant, seedy pal, but the situation threatened to turn bad so he stood loose and alert by the table, gauging distances and angles.

‘Was he expecting you?’ Hickey said.

Wyatt shrugged. ‘Talked to him during the week. Said I might come over tonight.’

‘You didn’t see him earlier today?’

‘No. You looking for him?’

‘I’m asking the questions. Were you around the place earlier, maybe giving it a spring-clean?’

‘No. I told you, I just dropped by now to have a few beers.’

‘Have you got the key to this flat?’

Wyatt looked from one man to the other. The young policeman was guarding the doorway. Hickey stood opposite Wyatt, his hands loose at his sides.

‘A key? No, why?’

‘Watch my lips,’ Hickey said. ‘I’m asking the questions.’

Wyatt made a cowed, sulky face, playing along with this. Hickey watched him for a moment. ‘You don’t look right to me, sunshine,’ he said suddenly. He turned. ‘Does he look right to you, Constable?’

The young policeman straightened. ‘No, Sergeant.’

Hickey swung back to Wyatt. ‘There you have it. Two votes against you. Got any ID, Mr Lake?’

Wyatt said, ‘Not on me, no.’

‘Not on you,’ Hickey said heavily. ‘No driver’s licence, no credit cards, no video library card?’

Wyatt frowned, concentrating, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘How do you get by?’ Hickey said, throwing up his hands. ‘This day and age you can’t go anywhere without ID.’

The young cop was grinning at the performance. It was a mistake: it made him too relaxed. His arms were folded and he was rocking back and forth. His reaction time would be slow. Wyatt concentrated on Hickey. Hickey was enjoying himself but Wyatt knew he would move in an instant if he had to.

Then Hickey changed tack. ‘What kind of car does your fat mate drive?’

Wyatt tensed. He said, trying to stay ahead of Hickey, ‘Last time I heard, he was between cars.’

Hickey scowled. ‘Did you know he’d hired one?’

‘No,’ Wyatt said. ‘I didn’t.’

From the doorway came the young constable’s voice: ‘A Corolla from one of them cheap places.’

Hickey turned, regarded the constable for a moment, then faced Wyatt again. ‘Hired yesterday, in fact.’

‘Fake ID,’ the young cop said. ‘The details don’t check out.’

Hickey said, ‘I’m really grateful to you for filling us in, Cuntstable. Now perhaps you’d like to continue your doorknocking?’

The constable blushed deeply and left the room. A few seconds later, Wyatt heard the front door squeak. He shifted position slightly. ‘Can I go? I can’t help you, don’t really know the bloke.’

‘Sit down,’ Hickey said. ‘I’m not finished with you yet.’ He waited while Wyatt, his gloved hands in his pockets, hooked out a chair with his foot and sat in it.

‘What I wonder is, why hire a cheap car when you’ve got enough to buy three new ones.’

‘Wouldn’t know.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Would you know where old Rob got that kind of money?’

Wyatt said, ‘Like I told you, I didn’t know him that well. Just to have a quiet beer with now and then, type of thing.’

Hickey nodded. ‘So you wouldn’t know what he did for a crust?’

‘No.’

‘He’s been inside for armed robbery, did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t know much, do you, sunshine? What were you inside for?’

Wyatt said truthfully, ‘Never been in. Got a clean record.’

Hickey took out his notebook. ‘Maybe you could just give me your full name and address and occupation and phone number.’ He curled his lip. ‘Unless, of course, you’re between jobs and places at the moment?’

‘Nothing like that,’ Wyatt said. He gave his name as Tom Lake and recited a false address and phone number. ‘Storeman,’ he said.

‘Storeman. Used to shifting things around, are you?’

Wyatt wished that Hickey would get to the point, about Hobba, or Finn’s safe, or both. ‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘Is Rob all right?’

‘Rob’s doing badly,’ Hickey said. ‘You could say he got too close to some nylon rope.’

‘What do you mean? Did he hang himself?’

‘Hang himself?’ Hickey said. He laced his fingers together and looked up at the ceiling. ‘I read somewhere once what the human body is worth. Any idea?’

Wyatt said nothing.

‘Bugger all, in fact,’ Hickey said. ‘We’re mostly water and a handful of cheap chemicals. In old Rob’s case, very cheap.’

Wyatt kept silent, watching Hickey.

‘This afternoon we got a report about your mate pulling a gun on some kids outside the lifts,’ Hickey said. ‘We found him with a rope around his neck and ankles like he was a Christmas turkey. If he struggles, he strangles himself.’ Hickey smiled. ‘He struggled.’

Wyatt looked at Hickey neutrally, thinking that Sugarfoot Younger had been learning some nasty habits and was cleverer than he thought. ‘Christ,’ he said.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Hickey said. ‘I think it was someone else.’ He leaned forward across the table. ‘What interests me is, why go to that sort of trouble if not to extract information? You wouldn’t know anything, I suppose? Didn’t give his place the once-over?’

Wyatt said nothing. This was taking too long. Hickey was watching him sharply, registering his face. ‘I only know him to have a beer with,’ Wyatt said, shifting back in his chair.

‘Keep still,’ Hickey said. ‘Hands cold, are they?’

‘Pardon?’

‘I want to see your hands. Then I want you to open your coat. Then I want you to empty out your pockets.’

‘Why?’ Wyatt said.

‘Don’t fucking prevaricate. Just do it.’

Wyatt pushed back in his chair as if to make it easier. Hickey was standing a metre back from the table. He snapped his fingers. ‘Get a move on.’

Wyatt kicked out. The table slammed into Hickey’s thighs. He cried out and fell forward, and Wyatt seized his collar, pulled back, and pounded his face down on the table top. A bone cracked. Hickey groaned and slid onto the floor.

Wyatt waited, listening, expecting the young cop to come running. When nothing happened, he pocketed Hickey’s police radio, cut the telephone lead and walked quietly to the open front door. The young cop was questioning an elderly woman farther down the corridor. She had seen nothing, knew little about Mr Hobba except that he kept to himself and was never noisy, not like some she could mention.

Wyatt was judging how he’d disarm the young cop when he heard heavy shoes clopping along the corridor and into the stairwell. He heard them climb to the floor above. He stood at the door. The corridor was clear. He crossed to the stairwell, listened at the entrance, then plunged into the fetid air. He ran down the eight flights. At one point he shouldered through a knot of children apparently buying amphetamines from a teenage supplier. He heard a faint, alarmed in-drawing of breath behind him.

He slowed at the bottom, emerged casually onto the forecourt, and dumped the police radio in a rubbish bin. He paused. No one was paying attention to him. His car was where he had left it. But there was a police car all right, an unmarked Commodore parked beyond a builder’s skip. It was not the kind of detail he could afford to miss again.

But the thing now was, had Hobba tried to trade his way out of danger, given up Anna Reid’s name in exchange for his life?