We rolled to a stop off the road. Dave found the handcuffs, flat high-tech things, not metal, light.
‘Just get it on the wrist, press closed. A spring locks it.’
He opened the boot, took out two bulky bulletproof vests, dull black nylon windcheaters, a long matt-black flashlight. We took off our coats, put on the gear. The vest was surprisingly light. There was something in my right windcheater pocket. A handkerchief, a folded handkerchief. From the last operation, presumably. Ironed and folded by someone. A loving spouse?
We walked back half a kilometre, climbed a fence at the strainer post. Not easily, in my case, carrying the flashlight.
On Painter’s soil, Painter’s buildings to the right. Damp soil, spongy. We walked to the left of the big buildings, Dave in front, uphill, going becoming heavy.
‘Fuck this,’ Dave said quietly. ‘Go down, take the road.’
We went downhill, walked between the big tin sheds. Chicken factory no more. Some rust, things lying around, general air of disuse. We turned left, walking just off the track, uphill, protected by a row of young evergreen trees.
The dark house. Low brick dwelling, old. On the site long before the egg factory. Fence, straggly hedge, vehicle gate off to the right. At the front gate, an old truck was parked, Dodge or Ford.
Ten metres from the truck, Dave stopped, knelt. I knelt close to him, feeling my heartbeat now.
‘I’m making the call.’ Soft, steady voice. ‘If I get him, I’m heading straight for the front door. You get behind the truck, watch my left arm. Goes up, put the light on the front door. When I’ve got the gun on him, get up there, don’t hurry, don’t spook him. Cuff him. Okay?’
I nodded, heart thumping now.
Dave took out his tiny mobile, pressed a button. The numbers glowed. He punched in a combination, put the phone to his ear.
I could hear the telephone ringing in the house.
Ringing.
Ringing.
Our eyes were locked. Dave looked faintly amused. With his right hand, he unholstered an automatic pistol from under his left armpit.
Ringing.
‘Hello.’ A tentative woman’s voice. Fear in it.
Dave smiled, a rueful smile.
‘Gary Connors, please,’ he said.
Silence.
Dave held up the phone for me to hear.
The receiver being put down on a hard surface.
Silence.
Noises.
I looked at the dark house. What was happening in there?
A voice said, ‘Gary Connors.’
A tired voice but not sleepy.
‘Gary. Detective Inspector David Gwynne of the Australian Federal Police. Hello. I’m outside. Your house is surrounded by police officers. What I’d like you to do is come to the front door, open it, come out with your hands in the air. That’s the easy way. The trained killers around the house have other ideas. Destroy the whole place, everyone in it. With me?’
Dave stood up and started walking towards the house, phone at his left ear, pistol in his right hand, down. When he got to the truck, I scuttled after him, got to the left front wheel of the truck, peered around the bumper.
‘No-one will harm you, Gary,’ Dave’s quiet voice was saying. ‘Give you my word. I want you alive, very much alive. And you’ll stay alive. Cover you with my own body at the door, these trigger-happy bastards aren’t going to risk shooting me.’
He went straight up the path, onto the verandah, stood to the left of the front door, facing the wall, back to me.
He was still talking but I couldn’t hear what he was saying.
He stopped talking. Closed the phone. Put it in his windcheater pocket.
His left arm went up.
I stood up, arms on the truck bonnet, aimed the flashlight.
Brilliant, intense beam of white light on the front door, old six-panel door, paint peeling. Above it, a fanlight, dusty etched glass.
Waiting. No light in the house.
Dave facing the wall, up against it, close enough to touch the doorknob, right arm bent, pistol barrel at his nose.
Waiting.
Light on somewhere in the house, glow behind the fanlight.
Waiting.
He wasn’t coming out. He’d spotted the bluff.
Waiting. Sweating in the cold, under the bulletproof vest. Heartbeat felt in the throat now.
Waiting. Dave would have to do something soon.
Do what? There was no fallback position.
Waiting.
Doorknob turning.
The door was being opened, swinging inward. Slowly.
I was holding my breath.
Someone. A man.
Hesitating.
Then he stepped forward, came out. Arms in the air, blinking against the flashlight beam.
Long hair, balding. Beard. Jeans and a sweater, barefoot. My size, roughly.
Dave was pulling the door closed behind him. He said, ‘Keep going. Stop. Now I want you to kneel down slowly, Gary. Keep your arms up.’
I came around the front of the truck, holding the light on the man, walking as normally as I could, getting the handcuffs out.
Gary knelt down, looking down.
I got to the verandah, behind him.
‘Bring your arms down slowly,’ Dave said. ‘Out wide, behind your back.’
It took a second to get the handcuffs on. Dave looked at me, not a look of interest.
‘Lie down, Gary.’
Gary lay down, on his stomach, head turned to one side.
‘Who’s in the house?’ Dave asked.
‘Just a woman,’ Gary said. ‘She’s scared. Don’t frighten her. She’s not involved.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Glenda.’
Dave knocked on the door. ‘Glenda,’ he said loudly. ‘Don’t be afraid. We’re policemen. Nothing to be afraid about.’
A passage light came on. The door opened. A woman in her forties, fair hair, worn face, pretty face, nightgown clutched at the neck.
She saw Gary, moved to go to him.
Dave put up a hand, stopped her. ‘No, Glenda,’ he said. ‘Gary’s fine. Not being hurt. He won’t be hurt. Taking him away for questioning. You’ll be told where he is, given a chance to speak to him. Understand?’
She didn’t take her eyes off Gary. Said nothing.
‘Good,’ Dave said. ‘Now can I ask you to pack Gary’s things? Shoes, socks, underwear, so on.’
She turned and went inside, still silent.
‘Get the vehicle,’ Dave said to me, holding out the keys.
I went down the track at a brisk pace, back inside five minutes, parked beside the truck, went up the path.
Dave was leaning against the wall, nylon sportsbag next to him, gunhand casually at his side.
‘Time to go, Gary,’ he said.
Gary got to his feet with difficulty. ‘Shoes,’ he said.
‘Later,’ Dave said. ‘Hold the cuffs, Jack.’
I got a grip on the handcuffs and we walked down the path. Behind us I heard the door open.
‘Love you,’ the woman said, voice breaking. ‘Love you always.’
‘Love you too,’ said Gary. ‘Always love you.’
At the vehicle, Gary said, ‘Surrounded. Just the two of you. What a prick, what a prick.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Dave said. ‘A murderous prick.’
‘Didn’t kill Dean. They did, the two men. I shot them.’
Dave nodded. ‘Talk about it,’ he said. ‘Might swallow that. Depends on how helpful you are.’
‘I’ll help.’
Dave had the back door open. ‘You’d better. What happened to Canetti’s tape?’
‘Burned it.’
‘What about your father’s money?’ I said. ‘Where’s that?’ I hadn’t thought about the money for days.
Gary looked at me, quizzical. ‘How do you know about that?’
I said, ‘I’m his lawyer and I’m here to get his money back.’
‘Not even two cops,’ said Gary. ‘One cop and a lawyer. Jesus Christ.’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s fifty grand or so in the shed. I’ll show you.’
‘Got to get that,’ I said to Dave. ‘It’s the reason I got involved in all this shit.’
Dave looked at his watch. ‘They’ll be here soon.’
‘Who?’
‘Two other people. Flying from Canberra. I couldn’t wait for them. Okay, let’s drive down there.’
To Gary, he said, ‘On the floor. On your face.’ To me, ‘Other kind of cuffs in the glovebox.’
I found them. ‘Put them on his ankles.’
‘Jesus,’ said Gary.
‘Let’s get these bloody vests off.’
We took off the windcheaters and the ballistic vests, put the jackets on again.
‘Drive, Jack.’
We drove down to the barns, Dave holding the pistol against Gary’s spine. When we’d stopped, Dave said, ‘Okay, where’s the stuff?’
‘Hard to explain,’ Gary said. ‘I’ll have to show you.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Dave. ‘Where?’
‘Got to move boards. Take me in, I’ll show you where, you can do it.’
Dave looked at me. ‘We can come back,’ he said, ‘take this place apart at our leisure.’
I shook my head. ‘No. The woman may know where the money is, nothing here when we come back. I want the money tonight.’
Dave sighed. ‘Okay.’
He got out, pulled Gary out of the back seat. I lit the way with the flashlight, went around three steel drums on the concrete driveway, long time since a vehicle went in here, opened a small door in one of a big pair, went in first.
I shone the flashlight around. It was a huge concrete-floored space, once the storehouse for the battery operation. To my left, three sets of heavy-duty industrial shelves rose to the roof, wide aisles between them. They were still full of supplies, neat stacks of 100-kilo bags of what could be chickenfeed pellets, big cardboard cartons, rows of fifty-litre plastic containers of liquid, some greenish, some water-coloured. Giant rolls of something. One shelf held several dozen cartons of canned dogfood.
I was right. It was a place that had dogs. Lots of dogs. Once.
‘In the office,’ Gary said behind me. ‘Over to the right.’
In the righthand corner, an office had been created by enclosing the space and giving it a door, a window and a roof, presumably to enable it to be heated.
We walked across, me in front, Gary shuffling awkwardly barefoot behind me, Dave at the back. At the office, Dave said, ‘Okay, that’s it. Where?’
‘Open the door,’ Gary said.
I opened it, shone the flashlight around: formica-topped metal desk, three plastic chairs, a filing cabinet with a kettle and a toaster on top of it, big old-fashioned bar heater. The walls were panelled in dark-brown imitation wood.
‘Push the filing cabinet away,’ Gary said. ‘The panel right behind it comes away. There’s a sportsbag in there.’
‘Stand against the window where I can see you, Gary,’ Dave said. ‘Any shit happens, I’m going to shoot you in the groin. Several times. Get the stuff, Jack. Take care. Boobytrap’s not unknown.’
I went in, put the flashlight on the desk, pointing at the window. The filing cabinet moved easily. Empty. Behind it, I could see that the plastic sealing strip between the panels was loose.
I got a nail behind it and it came away. I put three fingertips into the gap between panels and pulled the corner one away from the wall, put my hand in.
A bag, flattened to fit into the space. I pulled it out, with difficulty. A cheap nylon sportsbag, zipped, heavy. On the table, I unzipped it, shone the torch into it.
Notes in neat bundles held by thick rubberbands. Hundreds and fifties, easily fifty thousand dollars.
I zipped the bag, came out. ‘Everything’s here,’ I said.
‘That’s my man,’ said Dave. ‘Let’s get out of here, wait for them at the gate.’
But we didn’t have to wait. As I shone the light on it, the small door creaked open and a head came in. A sleek dark head and a pistol.
‘Dave? You?’
‘Tony,’ Dave said. ‘Come and meet Gary, man who’s going to make it all worthwhile for us.’
The man came through the door, followed by another man, also in a dark suit, bigger, fleshy face.
‘G’day, Dave,’ said the second man. ‘Couldn’t bloody wait, could you?’
‘How many people does it take to apprehend one fugitive?’ said Dave, a lightness in his voice. ‘This is Jack Irish, to whom we owe everything.’
They walked towards us, two businessmen, dark suits, white shirts, one carrying a pistol at his side, the other lighting a cigarette with a plastic lighter.
When they were a few paces away, Dave said, ‘Well, boys, the end’s in sight.’
He raised his pistol and shot the man called Tony twice, in the head, in the chest under the collarbone.
Then he turned and shot Gary, twice, three times, all in the upper chest, swung the weapon in my direction.
I switched off the flashlight, jumped sideways.
Pitch dark.
Dave fired.