Read Online Wyatt - 05 - Port Vila Blues by Garry Disher - Free Book Online Page A

of
oysters. De Lisle stood close to her, rotated his bulk a quarter turn, fitting
his groin against her thigh. Her brown skin felt cool beneath the hairline.
Then cotton, a series of bumps along her spine, then her wonderful arse.

    De Lisle rested the folds of his
chin on her bare shoulder. He watched her stare out across the water, very
still except as he began minutely to move against her.

    * * * *

    Ten

    It
was eight oclock on Thursday morning before Niekirk got back to his motel. He
crawled into bed, exhausted from the bank job and the long hours staking out
the U-Store building.

    He slept long into the day, then
showered in scalding water, needles of heat easing the strain in his neck and
shoulders. He dressed, caught a tram into the city, walked the arcades. The
Asahi Collection, on show from Monday 9 said the discreet card in the window of
the Soreki 5 department store. Niekirk mapped the area in his mind, then sat in
a coffee shop opposite, watching the security men change shifts. Groundwork. He
would spend another day doing this, then fly back to Sydney, wait for word from
De Lisle.

    Late in the afternoon he returned to
his motel. He was turning the key and pushing the door open when a man came
through the door behind him, crowding his back. Another was already in the
room, smiling humourlessly at him from the edge of the bed. If Niekirk hadnt
been exhausted he might not have been bushwacked. They wore suits and he knew
that was bad news.

    He turned to the suit behind him,
half inclined to fight his way free, but stopped when he saw the gun, a police issue
.38 revolver, stopped when he heard the giggle, high and mad.

    I wouldnt if I were you.

    The guy leaned back against the
door, a gun-happy light in his eyes, tongue tip sliding once over his upper
lip. Dont make me, he said, giggling again, jerking his head in a nervy
spasm, tossing hair away from his eyes. It was a ragged fringe of hair, cut
haphazardly by someone once a monthwife or girlfriend, but maybe even mother
for all Niekirk knewover an eager killers face.

    So Niekirk turned to the suit on the
bed, who said immediately, smiling all the while: A few matters to discuss,
Sergeant Niekirk.

    So they had his name. Niekirk forgot
about offering his fake ID. He reassessed the smile of the man on the bed. It
was a reflexive, all-purpose smile, the kind used to express rage, pain,
pleasure, hope, bonhomie to the media, ingratiation to the men upstairs who
outranked him, and often nothing at all. The other guy had the .38 but this was
the one Niekirk had to watch.

    What matters?

    The smile. This and that. Missing
items.

    The voice was deep-chested, a
sonorous baritone that liked to listen to itself. Niekirk said, Im entitled
to a phone call.

    The senior man got to his feet. He
was tall, a little stiff. He made a flowery gesture at the bedside telephone
with one long, well-shaped hand. Be my guest.

    Niekirk had memorised the number he
was to call if the local boys in blue nabbed him. He stood rather than sat, and
faced the room, the telephone cord clumsily draped across his chest. He waited
for the dial tone and punched in the number. At once he heard the ringing tone
on the line and a soft burr in the room. Smiling one of his smiles, the elegant
senior man fished a small black fold-up phone from his pocket.

    Niekirk replaced the handset. Youre
our green-light cop.

    The austere face kept smiling. I
suppose I must be.

    Got a name?

    The smile faded a little, deciding. Springett.

    Youd have rank, Niekirk observed.

    The smile came back. Inspector.

    Whos the cowboy on the door?

    Lillecrapp.

    Jesus Christ.

    It is a mouthful. Sit down. The
bed.

    Niekirk complied. Springett remained
standing, every hair in place, a neat, perfect knot in the bright, chaotically
patterned tie at his throat. The suit itself was sombre, the shirt crisply
white.

    Niekirk said, What missing items?

    Cast your mind back to your first
hit, that bank job in February.

    What