'You've got a fair bit out of him already.'

  Kimonides butted his cigarette. 'Not enough. More coffee? No? Think I will.'

  He signalled to the waitress and lit another Rothmans. This is a very edgy man, Dunlop thought. He knew the Waters killing was a big case which the police and the CCA were desperately anxious to conclude successfully, but would that account for the nervousness of this smooth copper? Kimonides drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for the coffee to arrive. He saw Dunlop looking at him and went on the attack. 'Understand you had a burn recently.'

  This was more characteristic of WPU and CCA relationships. 'So?' Dunlop said.

  'So maybe you feel you're not up to Loew. Too hot to handle.'

  The coffee came. Kimonides put his cigarette in the ashtray and the smoke drifted towards Dunlop. He waved it away, reached across and stubbed out the cigarette.

  'Listen, Inspector, if you know anything about this game you'll know there are three main reasons for fuck-ups. One, the client breaks the rules. Two, the case officer never had the real dope from the beginning. Three, bad luck.'

  Kimonides nodded.

  'I assess Loew as a good bet. Very tricky circumstances, but a strong player. You follow me?'

  The policeman visibly relaxed. 'Sure.'

  'But I've got a bad feeling about his deal, without knowing anything about it. I can smell something.'

  'Like what? It's nothing out of the ordinary.'

  'Why Loew?'

  'He has the necessary guts. Look, we'll all have a get-together when he's finished testifying. Right? Then we can thrash everything out. I just want to be sure your lot haven't gone to water.'

  'Speaking for myself, it's still a goer. But I want something in return, Inspector. I want to talk to Ivan Rennie.'

  It was an unbidden thought on Dunlop's part, he was merely fishing, but Kimonides' hesitant and cautious reaction was encouraging. The Inspector stroked his closely-shaven jaw and spooned sugar into his cup. 'Why?'

  'No whys, just yes or no.'

  'Okay,' Kimonides said.

  Not until he was back in his cell did the event in the court strike Kerry Loew with any force. He'd been shot at before as a moving target, never hit. He remembered the fusillade the jacks had fired at the farm where he'd hidden after the run from Goulburn. They'd spotted him in the bush and let go. No hits and he'd outrun them. The police didn't tell the reporters about that, nor about how two of them had held him down while a third kicked in his ribs. Ancient history. And there were the shots fired after the payroll job in Alexandria. A close call, that. But this was different. The guy wouldn't have been more than twenty-five metres away and he had time to get off two shots at a sitting duck. Loew sniggered to himself. Sitting dog.

  He tried to reconstruct the scene, to play it through his head like a videotape. He remembered looking around the court when he was off daydreaming about being a film star. He recalled the lawyers and their assistants, the court attendants, the stenographer, the judge—all in the foreground. That wog cop, Greg whatever-his-wog-name was. He was there. What about further back? Ordinary people, men and women. Light-coloured clothing on account of the weather. Some movement. A woman getting up to leave. The shooter was behind her. When he stood up there was no-one in front of him. That was planned, surely. What did he look like? Big, fat, but no-one in the room looked really fat compared with Fats Davies.

  He gave up. He didn't know the guy. Be interesting to find out how he got a gun into the court. The cell was getting on his nerves. He couldn't read. He didn't have a radio and it was too early for the television news. He'd been locked in on arrival and his request to go to the gym had been refused. The news had got around. Everyone was very jumpy. And why not? Once you were a dog with a number you were supposed to be safe. You were supposed to be safe in court anyway. Safe. They fucked-up. Maybe I can get something out of it. He decided to eat in the mess room.

  'In the fuckin' news again, mate.'

  Loew nodded at the man sitting opposite as he put down his tray. 'Yeah. Coulda done without it.'

  'Who d'you reckon it was?'

  Loew began eating and spoke through the food. 'Dunno. I could make a list. On the radio, was it?'

  His companion was number P18, Arthur Beatty, a former bookmaker who had been convicted of large-scale insurance fraud. His first-hand evidence on the money-laundering activities of a number of organised crime figures was to secure him early release and ongoing protection. Loew, never a gambler and not an employee of the crime bosses since his early days as a standover man, had no feelings about Beatty and his particular betrayal one way or the other.

  They were eating fish fingers, mashed potatoes and frozen peas. Beatty probed inside his mouth for a crumb that had slipped under his plate. 'Fuckin' food in here is terrible. I wouldn't give fish fuckin' fingers to my cat. Yeah, it was on the news. Is it going to screw up your deal?'

  Loew ate steadily although tension was building in him, making the food sit uneasily in his stomach. Too much acid, he thought. He forced the last few mouthfuls down. 'Not as far as I know. See you.'

  He took his tray, crockery and the plastic cutlery to the chutes and shoved them down. Several other men looked at him, nodded or looked away. Loew did pretty much the same. He tried to relax as he waited for the screw to let him out of the mess room. The guard waited until three or four men were assembled before he released the door. They had the option of going back to their cells or using the recreation area for an hour. The others trooped away and Loew stood until there was just him and the guard.

  'Phone call?' Loew said.

  'Legal?'

  'Private.'

  'How d'you stand?'

  They were allowed unlimited phone calls to their legal representative and five monitored private calls per week. Loew had expended his trying to call Cassie at the studio and at the flat in Neutral Bay. No joy at the studio and there'd been no answer each time he'd rung the flat. 'This'll be six.'

  The guard shook his head.

  'Come on, have a heart. I've had a hard day. It's to my wife. She'll be worried.'

  The guard relented and waved Loew to the bank of telephones. He pressed the switches that would open the line on the third phone and held up three fingers. Loew nodded. The guard rolled the monitoring tape. Loew hesitated before touching the buttons. Still working at the studio? Bit late. At home? Bit early. He had no choice, this was the only chance he'd get to make the call. Please be home. He rang the flat.

  'We're sorry, Amanda and Cassie are out. If you'd like to leave a message . . .'

  Loew slammed the phone down violently. Not Cassie's voice. Amanda's. Whoever the fuck she was. Cassie couldn't turn dyke on me, could she?

  The guard turned the tape recorder off and came out of the glass-panelled booth. 'Go easy on the equipment.'

  Loew glowered and said nothing.

  'Looks like she wasn't too worried, eh?'

  'Fuck you, fuck her, fuck everybody.'

  'That's the spirit,' the guard said.

  An answering machine at an unlisted number. What did that mean? The reporters must be on to her. I should have left a message.

  10

  Dunlop dialled the Neutral Bay number.

  'Amanda and Cassie are out. Please leave a message after the tone.'

  Dunlop cleared his throat. 'Message for Mrs Loew. My name is Dunlop. I'm involved in Mr Loew's legal affairs. If she will ring the number I'm going to give at the end of this message she will receive certain assurances and we can be put in touch. Thank you.' He recited the number which would be answered in impressively official and impersonal terms before being relayed to him, and hung up.

  He was at home, fighting the urge to drink something stronger than light beer. He concentrated on cooking an elaborate meal instead—short soup, spiced chicken skewers, saffron rice, sauces. The Asian food habit had been acquired from Katarina who was an artist at its preparation. Dunlop had purchased several of the books he'd seen Katarina consulting, but, somehow, his efforts never measured up to hers. A sauce called for brandy. He resisted the temptation to go out and buy some.

  The TV news went wild over the shooting, although the coverage was hampered by the lack of relevant footage. There were shots of the crowd milling outside the court building and official vehicles coming and going. A man flanked by police officers ducked his head and was hustled into an enclosed van—the assailant. A tall, frail-looking man climbed into the back seat of a grey Mercedes—the judge. The flattering sketch of Kerry Loew appeared on the screen and the inevitable stock shot of Cassie May—in lotus position with 'the smile'. But there was no new information. Dunlop himself knew more than the reporters from his conversation with Greg Kimonides.

  He ate his meal and found it tasteless. He washed up and prowled around the house wondering what the word was for the state of mind of a man who has been shot at but can only think of his wife—devoted, possessive, delusional? The phone rang and he snatched it up.

  'Dunlop.'

  The noises on the line indicated a patch-through. 'Mr Dunlop? This is Cassie May Loew. If you're a journalist playing some sort of trick, I'm going to report you to the Press Council.'

  The deep, breathy voice he'd expected, but the aggression was a surprise—nothing like the teasing, amused television style.

  'It's not a trick, Mrs Loew. I've had several meetings with your husband recently. I'm the case officer in charge of his protection.'

  'Oh. Very well, then. What do you want?'

  What about, 'How is he? Is he alt right?' Dunlop thought. Confused by her response, he answered his own question. 'He's okay.'

  'I asked you what you wanted.'

  This was weird. Dunlop had prepared a mental script in which he informed Mrs Loew of the arrangements he would make for her to be admitted to the interview room, but the script wouldn't play. 'I . . . ah, we must . . .'

  'Reporters have been at me ever since this trial started. I'm sick to death of it. And what happened today was the last straw. I don't think I can take any more.'

  Dunlop pulled himself together. 'We must have a talk, Mrs Loew, and soon.'

  'It's about time someone talked to me about all this.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Nothing. Okay, let's talk. Tonight. I'm too wound to sleep. You've got the phone number, so you must have the address.'

  'I do. Are there any journalists around?'

  'No. I told them all to fuck off and they did. I threw a flower pot. I throw a mean flower pot. Got dirt all over some bitch's white dress.'

  'I'll come now.'

  'Bring something to drink. Christ, I need a drink.'

  She cut the call. Wound? Dunlop thought. Drink? What the hell would she drink? Camomile tea? It didn't sound like it. He showered quickly and changed into a light suit, no tie. He checked his money and credit cards and headed for the garage. He swore savagely when he remembered that the car was in the workshop. He caught a taxi in Addison Road and had it stop in Newtown while he bought a bottle of gin and some splits of tonic water. If she hasn't got lemons or limes, too bad.

  She was wearing a green silk robe with long sleeves and a loosely-knotted fastening on the right shoulder. The robe touched the floor. She stood barely 150 centimetres and made Dunlop feel like a giant. Her hair was damp and she smelled of bath oil. She ushered him into the living room of the fourth-floor flat. One wall consisted of two sliding glass panels, letting out onto a balcony. The view was towards Shell Cove. The decor and furniture were showroom modern but with individualistic touches—a battered leather bean bag, an old framed print of Max Dupain's Sunbather, a glass-fronted trophy cabinet.

  She put the bottles on the coffee table in the centre of the room. 'Gin, good choice. Have a look around.'

  She came back with glasses, a bottle opener, sliced lemon and a bowl of ice before Dunlop had time to do much more than admire the view. He'd sneaked a look at the cabinet though—Cassandra May Daniels' sprinting trophies. She made two strong drinks and handed him one.

  'Sit down, Mr Dunlop.'

  Dunlop took a chair while she plopped down into the bean bag. It sank and then rose around her. She was bare-footed. Dunlop had to stop himself staring at the long, slender feet and the lines of her body under the silk robe. He took a pull on a drink and was astonished at the clean taste. He hadn't drunk gin for years.

  She said, 'So you're going to protect him—get him a job, a new identity, all that?'

  Dunlop nodded. The way her mouth moved when she drank fascinated him.

  'Won't that be hard? I mean with all this attention he's been getting?'

  'It won't be easy, but it can be done. There are procedures.' Dunlop felt he was being boring. He was sweating and moved his shoulders inside his jacket to free his shirt.

  'Take your coat off. You look very uncomfortable. Or aren't you allowed to take it off? Are you a policeman, Mr Dunlop?'

  Dunlop stood, removed his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. He felt better standing up, looking down at her. Sitting, he felt intimidated by her tiny, dark stillness. He picked up his drink and went to the window. 'I'm a sort of a policeman, yes. Kerry nearly flattened two of his guards today.'

  She swung around slightly to look at him as he stood by the window. 'You were there?'

  'Yes.'

  'What did you do?'

  'I stopped him.'

  'How?'

  Dunlop stared out at the lights in the houses around the Cove and on the moored boats. It occurred to him that he'd never lived anywhere with a water view. The Sydney dream and he'd never had it. He liked this one. He didn't want to mention guns. 'Never mind,' he said. 'Then I talked to him. He's a very worried man.'

  'No wonder, with people shooting at him in court. Some protection!'

  'It's not that he's worried about. He's worried about you.'

  She drained her glass. Dunlop realised that he'd emptied his, too. She stood and moved towards him with her hand out. He surrendered the glass and watched as she bent to make new drinks. She had nothing on under the robe, he was sure of it. He could see the cleft of her buttocks. As she turned back towards him, the loose silk whispered briefly over her breasts, defining an erect nipple. He took the glass. She stood close, tinkled the ice in her glass and drank, tilting her head back, showing the smooth, taut lines of her throat.

  'It's a nice view, isn't it?'

  Dunlop couldn't speak. He nodded, drank deeply. Is this happening? She's here and I'm here and we're drinking together and talking about the view. She looked up at him and her dark, slanted eyes seemed to cut straight into his brain, directing his thoughts.

  'Where's Amanda?' he said.

  She swung away then, stepping silently across the thick pile carpet. 'There isn't any Amanda. I did the voice myself. It's better if you live alone not to advertise the fact.'

  'I see.' Dunlop willed himself not to follow that mental track. Get real. Get professional. 'He wants me to arrange for you to come to our next meeting—in the court building, after the trial session.'

  'Does he? And you're his messenger boy, are you? You do what he says.'

  'No.'

  'No?' She glided quickly towards him, her glass held hard against her chest, outlining her breasts. She stopped a metre away; her hair had dried and curled crisply around her ears. Her lips seemed to swell as she pushed the words at him. 'What's your first name?'

  'Fr—, Lucas. Luke.'

  'A phoney name. How exciting. How did you stop him beating up the guards, Luke?'

  Dunlop watched as she drained her drink again. She swayed slightly, blinked and licked at the corners of her mouth. He was erect and throbbing, as excited and embarrassed as a teenager. 'I . . . I stuck a gun in his ear.'

  'So you're not afraid of him?'

  He didn't have to think. He wasn't afraid of anyone. He shook his head. 'No.'

  'I am.'

  'Yes?'

  'When he told me he was getting out, I was terrified. I can't tell you what he looked like. It was horrible.'

  'Jesus.' Dunlop breathed.

  'I haven't been to see him since. I haven't answered his letters or taken his phone calls. Did he tell you that?'

  'No.'

  'He wouldn't. He'd hold it all in. You talk about protection. Christ, I need protection. I don't want him to come out!'

  Dunlop dropped his glass and took a step. He put his arms around her and lifted. She flowed up against him, light and loose. Her arms went around his neck. He kissed her and tasted the gin. Then her mouth was opening and moving hard against his and he felt her tongue and he was all-powerful from head to toe.

  'I haven't been with a man since word got out about me and Kerry,' Cassie said. 'Would you believe it? All just too scared. Terrified of a man who's locked up for the next fourteen years.'

  They were in her bed, a queen-size with white satin sheets, now very much wrinkled and stained with sweat and baby oil. They had made love three times in two hours. Dunlop found her small, perfectly tuned body fiercely erotic. After very few preliminaries, he had thrust into her and emptied himself and she'd cried out and clung to him until he was aroused again and they were moving in a blind, unconscious rhythm that took them to the brink and over. And then again, slowly this time, interrupted when she dashed to the bathroom for the oil, and then still more slowly as they explored their bodies' needs and responses. Now he lay with her resting in his arms and wondered whether to believe a word she spoke and whether he cared.

  'It's been a while for me, too,' he said.

  'I guessed. Good, wasn't it?'

  'Better than good. The best.'

  'Mm. Do you want a drink?'

  'No more gin. You know, I watched your show. I thought you'd be a teetotaller. Reckoned I should bring camomile tea or something.'

  'Nothing wrong with that. Want some?'

  'No.' He moved and she fell away from him. He reached out and ran his hands down her body. 'God, you're so beautiful.'

  She snorted gently and he smelled a gentle gust of gin. 'You mean you like my tits and my arse and my cunt. What about me?'

 

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