A shake.
“Why did he leave? What did you tell him?”‘
“Brave.”
“You told him Brave had the files. Is that true?”
She closed her eyes and I eased her back down onto the pillow.
“You don’t know,” I said almost under my breath. “Good girl, that was smart.” There was one last thing I needed to know. I smoothed down the cap of hair which was sweaty and sticking up in spikes. “Ailsa, I have to know this. When did Bryn leave, can you tell me?”‘
“You rang,” she whispered, “he left.”
That made it half an hour or so, a little more. If he went to Brave’s place directly he’d be there within an hour. Maybe he wasn’t there yet and perhaps I could still spring the trap. Ailsa seemed to have lost consciousness, I checked her pulse again, still strong, I pulled a sheet up over her body and was just watching the blood ooze through it when I heard the sirens.
“Where?” the shout came from the front of the house.
“Back bedroom,” I bellowed.
Two ambulance men charged into the room carrying a stretcher. The young fresh-faced one stopped short, he hadn’t done much in this line of work before. The older man took a glance then busied himself preparing the stretcher. His face was an expressionless mask.
“Anything broke?”
“I don’t think so.”
He pulled the sheet aside carefully and gently lifted her arms and legs an inch or so; he put his ear to her chest.
“Think you’re right. Has to be moved anyway, needs treatment fast. OK Snowy, stop gawking. On the stretcher.”
The boy did his share smartly enough.
“Who did this?” he said as they were fastening the straps.
“A friend.”
“God, I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, he’s going to be sorrier.”
While this was going on I found Ailsa’s address book and the name and number of her doctor. I wrote them on the back of my card and tucked it into the older guy’s overall pocket.
“I’m admitting her. Her doctor’s name and number are on the card, it’s my card. Her name’s Ailsa Sleeman, double e. Where will she be?”
He raised an eyebrow and seemed to be going to protest until he got a good look at my face. “St Bede’s,” he said nervously. “You should admit her personally, but I guess you’re going to be busy.”
“That’s right.”
I told him I’d contact the police and he offered no argument to that. They carried her gingerly out of the house, down the steps and put her in the ambulance. The siren screamed and the vehicle wailed off towards the city.
It was early for my calls to Evans and Tickener, but perhaps too late. A packet of Ailsa’s cigarettes was lying on the floor near the bed and I took one out mechanically and put it in my mouth. Then I looked at the floor again. Three long butts had been squashed out into the deep pile of the carpet making charred holes as big as five cent pieces. I spat the cigarette out, grabbed the phone and dialled. Tickener’s voice was flat, bored, he wasn’t expecting me yet.
“This is Hardy,” I said, “things are breaking. Here’s what I want you to do…” He interrupted me. “Listen Hardy, I’ve been looking into this Brave. He’s weird, he…”
I cut in. “Yeah, I know. Tell me later. I want you to get out to the clinic as fast as you can. Colin Jones around, is he?”
“Yes, matter of fact he’s right here now. I had a word with him, mate of yours I understand…”
I cut him off again. “Bring him! The cops won’t be far behind you and I won’t be far behind them. Give the place a bit of air the way you did before, OK?”
“OK Hardy. We’re busting Brave?”
“Wide open,” I said, “and you’re an A grade from tomorrow if you handle it right.”
I rang off and dialled Evans’ number. He answered testily.
“You’re early, you’re never early, it can’t be you.”
“It’s me, I was pushed. My client’s been cut and burned and our men aren’t standing about. Can you move now?”
“Yeah, but give me something for the sheet.”
“Put what you like on it, but don’t put this — Costello.”
“Shit!”
“Right. I think Brave has him at his clinic in Longueville. Your mate Jackson is running interference and a Dr Clyde is doing the remodelling of Costello’s dial. I want Brave. Costello’s just a byproduct to me but I haven’t got any time for him anyway. Suit you?”
“And how!” I could hear the scratch of his writing across the line. I gave him the address and a few other details. I was praying that Bryn’s trip to Longueville would delay things out there enough so that all the principals wouldn’t be on planes to Rio by the time the law, the press and I got there.
I got up off the floor with creaking knee joints and needles of pain in my skull. I looked around the room, at the bloody sheets, the cigarette ends and the ripped clothes. Some light was coming in from an opening in the curtains and I could see the swimming pool still reflecting light challengingly close, but I doubted that Ailsa would ever feel like reading her novels, smoking her cigarettes and being warm and loving in that room again. It was a room I’d liked more than most, and it made me sad to know how it’d been used by the worst sort of human being to create the worst sort of pain.
There was a small clutch of neighbours across the road standing on a second level balcony exhibiting well bred interest in the proceedings. They had glasses in their hands as if they were toasting the most excitement seen in that part of the world in years. I gave them a rude gesture and drove off leaving them twittering and fluttering like birds who’ve been thrown a handful of seed.
I was getting to know the route out to Longueville well enough to drive it in my sleep. I pushed the Falcon flat-out. A few solid citizens shook their heads disapprovingly as I passed them and two bikies gave me an outrider escort for a mile for the hell of it. The day was dying and a soft, limp night settling down on the suburbs and bills when I reached Longueville but I was thinking of Ailsa and wailing sirens and it seemed to be raining blood to me.
13
Tickener’s Holden was standing around the corner from the clinic and half a block back along the street. Across from it were two unmarked cars carrying four men who could only have been cops. I pulled up behind Tickener. Grant Evans got out of his car and walked across to the Holden. He got on the front seat and I got in the back. I sat down next to a small, relaxed looking guy who wore a Zapata moustache and an intelligent expression. Evans spoke first.
“You didn’t tell me that the press were in on it, Cliff, I could get my arse kicked for this.”
“You won’t,” I assured him. “The fish are too big and too many people are going to be scared shitless to worry about you. You’ll do yourself a lot of good. Oh, by the way, Harry Tickener, Inspector Grant Evans.” They shook hands warily. Tickener half-turned and nodded at the photographer sitting next to me who was fiddling with what looked like twenty different camera attachments. “Colin Jones,” he said. Evans stuck out his hand and Colin gave it a quick shake and went back to his cameras. He’d been a man of few words when I’d met him as a reconnaissance cameraman in Malaya, and he hadn’t changed a bit.
“This should be right up your street, Colin,” I said. “Here’s how it stands. I think Rory Costello’s in there getting a face job. There are legitimate patients in there too which poses a bit of a problem and there’s plenty of muscle. A boy named Bruno who can handle himself and at least two others who can dish it out. And Costello of course, but I imagine he’s out of action. He was bandaged up like a mummy when I saw him, if it was him.”
“It better be,” Evans growled. “Weapons?”
“Didn’t see any but sure to be some. The guy on the gate is almost certainly armed and he’s our first problem.”
“That booth looks like a fortress,” said Tickener.
“It’s pretty formidable,” I agreed, “but the problem is that it relays pictures and alarms to the main building. The fence is electrified and there are TV cameras about.”