north with a
faint tyre squeal. Letterman waited for the traffic to ease, then followed him.
Pedersen cut through to Nicholson Street and went north along it. Hed been
drinking heavily and it showed in his driving. Just my luck, Letterman thought,
if he gets pulled over for drunken driving. He lost Pedersen at Brunswick Road
when Pedersen ran a red light, but it didnt matter, Pedersen was going home.
Letterman got to Pedersens house in
Brunswick in time to see the Range Rovers rear lights go off. He pocketed a
Polaroid camera, got out and ran silently across the road and behind the Range
Rover. It was a narrow street, dark, and Pedersen didnt hear him coming. When
Pedersen let himself into his house, Letterman pushed in behind him. He pushed
the door closed, hearing the lock click home, and took out his knife.
Pedersen spun around, then flattened
his back to the wall in shock. His breath was beery. Letterman raised the knife
and touched the blade tip under Pedersens jaw, watching with interest the
gulping motions in Pedersens throat. He said softly, Maxie.
Max Pedersen gulped again. Who are
you?
You dont want to know that, Max,
Letterman said. He used Pedersens first name deliberately. It gave him an
extra advantage over Pedersen, who didnt even have a last name to call him.
For the next two minutes Letterman
said nothing. Instead, he put his head on one side and then the other, turning
the blade tip under Pedersens jaw. The hall light flashed on the steel.
The silence began to work. It always
did. What do you want? Pedersen asked. Just tell me and Ill do it. You want
money? I got some in my wallet.
Still Letterman said nothing. He
would let the silence do its job, then fire the hard questions so they hit like
punches.
He shouted the first one. Where
is he?
Pedersen winced. Who?
Letterman said nothing. He waited,
then asked softly, Where is he?
Who? I dont know who you mean.
Almost a caressing whisper this
time: Where is he?
Who? Pedersen pleaded. Only I
live here. Who do you want?
Letterman stood back at arms length
and nicked Pedersens neck with the blade. When he spoke it was bleak and fast: Wyatt.
Pedersens hand went up and came
away with blood on it. He looked at it and then at Letterman, as if the world
was spinning too fast for him. Wyatt?
Ideally Letterman would have another
man helping with the questioning, one to hurt the subject where it wouldnt
show, the other to offer a way out of the fear and pain. Where is he? he
repeated.
Wyatt doesnt live here, Pedersen
replied. This is my place.
Letterman was gentle and smiling
again, but the knife was beginning to make a Crosshatch of nicks on Pedersens
neck. I know that. I want to know where he is.
I havent seen him for weeks,
whined Pedersen.
This was clearly the truth.
Letterman had known it all along really, but still, he greeted it with total
disbelief, another move that usually got results. Bullshit! Youre working
with him again.
No, promise, no, Pedersen
protested. He was close to tears. I swear I havent seen him. He got in strife
and cleared out and no ones seen him.
Lets say I believe you. I dont,
but for arguments sake, lets say I do. If he cleared off, where would he go?
Has he got some bird stashed away somewhere? Does he like to poke little boys
in Manila? Maybe hes got an old mum over in Perth or something?
Pedersen began to get his courage
back. This maniac didnt want him, had nothing against him. I hardly know the
bloke. He keeps to himself. One or two big jobs a year, then he drops out of
sight again.
Letterman smiled again and let the
light flash on the blade. You work with him.
Only the once.
You were with him on his last job.
Pedersen nodded reluctantly. Yes.
You stepped on some toes with that
one, Letterman said.
Letterman always used a thin blade.
Thin blades slide in easily, avoiding needless hacking and cutting. He always
held the knife flat and horizontal, and used a single, direct thrust.
faint tyre squeal. Letterman waited for the traffic to ease, then followed him.
Pedersen cut through to Nicholson Street and went north along it. Hed been
drinking heavily and it showed in his driving. Just my luck, Letterman thought,
if he gets pulled over for drunken driving. He lost Pedersen at Brunswick Road
when Pedersen ran a red light, but it didnt matter, Pedersen was going home.
Letterman got to Pedersens house in
Brunswick in time to see the Range Rovers rear lights go off. He pocketed a
Polaroid camera, got out and ran silently across the road and behind the Range
Rover. It was a narrow street, dark, and Pedersen didnt hear him coming. When
Pedersen let himself into his house, Letterman pushed in behind him. He pushed
the door closed, hearing the lock click home, and took out his knife.
Pedersen spun around, then flattened
his back to the wall in shock. His breath was beery. Letterman raised the knife
and touched the blade tip under Pedersens jaw, watching with interest the
gulping motions in Pedersens throat. He said softly, Maxie.
Max Pedersen gulped again. Who are
you?
You dont want to know that, Max,
Letterman said. He used Pedersens first name deliberately. It gave him an
extra advantage over Pedersen, who didnt even have a last name to call him.
For the next two minutes Letterman
said nothing. Instead, he put his head on one side and then the other, turning
the blade tip under Pedersens jaw. The hall light flashed on the steel.
The silence began to work. It always
did. What do you want? Pedersen asked. Just tell me and Ill do it. You want
money? I got some in my wallet.
Still Letterman said nothing. He
would let the silence do its job, then fire the hard questions so they hit like
punches.
He shouted the first one. Where
is he?
Pedersen winced. Who?
Letterman said nothing. He waited,
then asked softly, Where is he?
Who? I dont know who you mean.
Almost a caressing whisper this
time: Where is he?
Who? Pedersen pleaded. Only I
live here. Who do you want?
Letterman stood back at arms length
and nicked Pedersens neck with the blade. When he spoke it was bleak and fast: Wyatt.
Pedersens hand went up and came
away with blood on it. He looked at it and then at Letterman, as if the world
was spinning too fast for him. Wyatt?
Ideally Letterman would have another
man helping with the questioning, one to hurt the subject where it wouldnt
show, the other to offer a way out of the fear and pain. Where is he? he
repeated.
Wyatt doesnt live here, Pedersen
replied. This is my place.
Letterman was gentle and smiling
again, but the knife was beginning to make a Crosshatch of nicks on Pedersens
neck. I know that. I want to know where he is.
I havent seen him for weeks,
whined Pedersen.
This was clearly the truth.
Letterman had known it all along really, but still, he greeted it with total
disbelief, another move that usually got results. Bullshit! Youre working
with him again.
No, promise, no, Pedersen
protested. He was close to tears. I swear I havent seen him. He got in strife
and cleared out and no ones seen him.
Lets say I believe you. I dont,
but for arguments sake, lets say I do. If he cleared off, where would he go?
Has he got some bird stashed away somewhere? Does he like to poke little boys
in Manila? Maybe hes got an old mum over in Perth or something?
Pedersen began to get his courage
back. This maniac didnt want him, had nothing against him. I hardly know the
bloke. He keeps to himself. One or two big jobs a year, then he drops out of
sight again.
Letterman smiled again and let the
light flash on the blade. You work with him.
Only the once.
You were with him on his last job.
Pedersen nodded reluctantly. Yes.
You stepped on some toes with that
one, Letterman said.
Letterman always used a thin blade.
Thin blades slide in easily, avoiding needless hacking and cutting. He always
held the knife flat and horizontal, and used a single, direct thrust.
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