Garry Disher - Port Vila Blues: A Wyatt Novel (Allen & Unwin Original Fiction.)

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Port Vila Blues

[Wyatt 05]

By Garry Disher

Scanned & Proofed By MadMaxAU

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One

CarlyleStreet, Double Bay, 7 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, the air clean and cool. Behindclosed doors in the big houses set back far from the street, people werebeginning to stir, brewing coffee or standing dazed under showers. Wyattimagined the smell of the coffee, the sound of the water gurgling in the pipes.

But not at 29 Carlyle Street. Accordingto Jardines briefing notes, the house would be empty for the next few days. Itwas the home of Cassandra Wintergreen, MP, Labor member for the seat ofBroughton, currently in Dili on a fact-finding mission. Champagne Marxist andALP head-kicker from way back, Jardine had scrawled in his covering note. Thatmeant nothing to Wyatt. Hed never voted. If he read the newspapers at all itwas with an eye for a possible heist, not news about political tussles. Hisonly interest in Wintergreen lay in the fact that she had $50,000 in a floorsafe in her bedroom: a kickback, according to Jardine, from a gratefuldeveloper whod asked her to intervene in a planning dispute regarding accessto a strip of shops he was building in her electorate.

Wyatt continued his surveillance.Whenever he staked out a place he noticed everything, no matter how trivial,knowing that something insignificant one day can be crucial the next; noticingin stages, first the general picture, then the finer details; noticing routesout, and obstacles like a rubbish bin or a crack in a footpath that could bringan escape undone.

There were two gateways in the longstreet frontage, indicating a driveway that curved up to the front door thenback down to the street. Shrubs and small trees screened the front of the housefrom the footpath and from the houses on either side. It all spelt money andconviction.

Conviction. Wyatt had grown up innarrow back streets. His mother had never spoken about his father and Wyatt hadno memories of the man. Wyatt had earned himself broad convictions on thosenarrow streets. Later hed read books, and looked and listened and acted,refining his convictions.

Jardines floor plans revealed ahallway at number 29, two large front rooms on either side of it, and a rangeof other rooms at the back and on the upper level. Jardine had marked threepossible hitches for Wyatts attention. One, the house was patrolled byHomeSecure once a day, usually around midnight; two, the alarm system was wiredto the local cop shop; three, hed not been able to supply the cancel codes forthe alarm system but the combination for Wintergreens safe was her birth date:27-03-48. Jardine built his jobs on information supplied by claims assessors ininsurance companies, the tradesmen who installed security systems, surveillancereports and bugged conversations collected by bent private detectives. A worddropped here and there by real estate agents, chauffeurs, taxi drivers, bankclerks, casino croupiers, clubland boasters.

Wyatt watched for another fiveminutes. It was the variable in any situation that kept him on his toes.Without the habit of permanent vigilance he knew that hed lose the edge, andthat might mean a final bullet or blade or at the least steel bands manaclinghis wrists. There was always the unexpected change in layout or routine, thetraffic jam, the flat battery, the empty safe. But these were things you couldnever fully prepare for, so you hoped theyd never happen. If they did, youtried to absorb them as you encountered them and hoped they wouldnt trip youup. The innocent bystander was often the worst that could happen. Man, woman orchild, they were unpredictable. Would they panic? Stand dumbly in the line offire? Try to be a hero? Wyatt hated it if they got hurt or killednot becausehe cared personally but because it upset people, particularly the police.

Satisfied that the house was empty,Wyatt crossed the street to number 29, a brisk shoe-leather snap to hisfootsteps. Dressed in a dark, double-breasted coat over a collar and tie,swinging a black briefcase, he might have been the first businessman up thatmorning. Soon cars would be backing out of driveways, white exhaust gasesdrifting in the air, but for the moment Wyatt was the only figure abroad on thelong, prosperous streets of Double Bay.

He paused at the driveway. Arolled-up newspaper was lying in the gutter nearby. Wyatt had dropped it thereunseen in the dark hours of the morning, but anyone watching from a nearbywindow now would have seen him bend down, pick up the newspaper and stand therefor a while, looking indecisively up the driveway at the house as if he wereasking himself whether or not he should take the paper in or leave it therewhere it could be damaged or stolen. They would have seen him decide. Theywould have seen him set off up the driveway, a kindly passerby, banging thepaper against his knee.

The front windows could not be seenfrom the street or the houses on either side. Wyatt swung the briefcase,smashing the sitting room window. At once the blue light above the front doorbegan to flash and Wyatt knew that bells would be ringing at the local policestation. He had a few minutes. He wouldnt rush it.

The newspaper was tightly rolled inshrink-wrapped plastic. It had the stiffness and density of a small branch.Wyatt dropped it under the window and walked unhurriedly back down the drivewayand onto the footpath again.

In the next street he took off thecoat and tie, revealing a navy blue reversible jacket. There was a cap in thepocket. He put that on and immediately looked as though he belonged to thelittle Mazda parked near the corner. Dark, slanting letters on each sidespelled out Rapido Couriers and hed stolen it from a service depot the nightbefore. Couriers were as common now as milk vans in the old days, so he wasntexpecting questions and he wasnt expecting anyone to be looking for the car inDouble Bay. He climbed in and settled back to wait, a street directory proppedon the steering wheelan old ploy, one that worked.

He fine-tuned the police-band radioon the seat next to him in time to hear the call go out. He heard thedispatcher spell the address slowly and give street references.

Neighbour call it in? a voicewanted to know.

Negative. The alarm system at thepremises is wired to the station.

A falling leaf, the patrol-car coppredicted. Dew. Electrical fault. What do you bet me?

Another voice cut in: Get to it,you two.

It was as though the patrol-car cophad snapped to attention. Wyatt heard the man say, Right away, sarge, over andout, and a minute later he saw the patrol car pass, lights flashing behind himon Carlyle Street.

The toothache didnt creep into hisconsciousness, it arrived in full, lancing savagery. Nerves twitched and Wyattfelt his left eye flutter. He couldnt bear to move his head. It was the worstattack yet, arriving unannounced, arriving when the job demanded his fullattention. He tapped the teeth on his upper left jaw, searching for the bad oneas though finding it would give him some comfort. It was there, all right.

He snapped two paracetamol tabletsout of a foil strip and washed them down with a bottle of apple juice. Then hetook out a tiny jar of clove oil, shook a drop on his finger, rubbed it intohis jaw and gently over the tooth. Hed been doing this for five days now. Hedidnt know if the painkillers or the clove oil did much good. They didnt makethings worse, so that was something in their favour.

Wyatt blocked out the pain andconcentrated on the radio. It was good to be working alone, the appeal of theplanning and the executionand, if he cared to admit it, of the anticipated andactual danger. He thought for a moment about these jobs Jardine wasblueprinting for him. In one instance, three months earlier, a millionaire hadhired them to get back the silverware collection hed lost to his ex-wife inthe divorce settlement. In another, a finance company had paid to have abankrupt property developer who owed them two million dollars relieved of twoundeclared Nolans and a Renoir.