Dome of Death - 19. Chapter 19 The Best Laid Plans...

Back at the coast we looked for a safe house in the washed-out beachside suburbs because they were now the least populous. It sounded simple; find an isolated place where we could come and go without attracting attention, but by four o'clock we were getting desperate. I was gazing in despair at the mess that had once been a sports ground, when something caught my eye.

‘What’s that behind the trees?’

Jon backed up. The playing fields had dissolved into a foetid swamp, but the concrete changing rooms with their upstairs clubhouse were intact, and the drive towards it seemed solid enough. The houses and shops opposite had been abandoned to encroaching marsh, and a clump of dying cottonwood trees hid the building from the road. The entrance was on the side furthest from the shops and road, invisible unless you went round the back. Ideal.

We stopped in front of the door and dumped our cargo. I untied the rope between neck and ankles, grasped it firmly and prodded. The downstairs changing rooms were knee deep in muck, so we forced Scumble to slither up the concrete stairs, scraping off a few patches of skin on the way. One false move and I could yank on the rope and strangle him, or kick him back down.

The stairs opened into a large and airy room. On the far side a door gave on to a wide but narrow space with high windows along each side. I lengthened the noose rope and tied it to a stanchion between the windows on one side, then slipped a second noose round his neck and fastened it to the stanchion on the other. There was enough slack for him to sit down, but as his hands were still behind his back, not enough to let him reach the knots. The gag stopped him chewing on the rope.

We spread ourselves in the main room and pooled ideas. After an hour we still had no plausible reason for Scumble to take off with Jon, stay hidden for a couple of days, and then ring MacFife for assistance.

‘My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. Who’s getting dinner?’ We tossed for it and I drove a couple of kilometres to the nearest store and stocked up on tins of ham, fresh apples, bananas, bread, biscuits, and a crate of bottled water. There was certainly no shortage of food in the shops. Scumble got a couple of bananas.

An idea jelled. ‘How about this?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘The police were called to a domestic dispute in the flat next door. They knocked on Scumble’s door and told him they would need to interview him afterwards, so he took off.’

‘How serious was this argument?’

‘It’d have to be life threatening.’

‘And if MacFife checks the story?’ Jon pulled a face. ‘You can do better than that.’

‘OK. He got a call from the cops asking to see him. Guessing that one of their many enemies had dobbed him in, he thought it best to scram before they arrived.’

‘And the fire hose? Water everywhere?’

‘Beats me.’ I had run out of ideas.

‘And why would the cops ring first?’

‘OK, smart arse, your turn.’

‘Instead of cops, how about if a buddy had rung to warn him of a rumour that the cops were searching suspect houses?’

‘Better. And the fire-hose?

‘That was a warning to MacFife that something was wrong.’

‘Clever.’

‘Mmm. Let’s see what the expert has to say.’

‘Right. But, exactly what did the police suspect?’

‘Drugs? You told me they were snorting lines at the party.’

‘And the blokes with briefcases the other day. They’d come to pick up supplies, you reckon?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘And ArtWorks?’

‘Let’s ask Scumble.’

Our prisoner looked more humble than Scumble and made no attempt to call out when we removed his gag. His flesh was grey, unappetising and soft; a muscle freak with withdrawal symptoms. At the orgy in Frances’s bedroom and again at the gallery, he had pumped himself up. Now belly, tits and bum were sagging.

I stared at him. He stared belligerently back.

‘You’re not as beautiful as the first time I saw you.’

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘I’m the guy who’s arse you split open with a purple dildo and then dumped tons of rubble on, at the back of the gallery, before going back inside with Bob Glaze to rape and murder Frances. And this is my partner, whose neck you were going to break before tossing him off my roof.’

Like all good and true Aussie blokes, Scumble had no use for displays of emotion. If he was surprised, he kept it hidden. Although after the previous twenty-four hours he’d probably used up his meagre reserves of feeling.

‘Whaddaya want?’

‘What’s ArtWorks?’

‘Get fucked.’

Jon thumped one of the noose ropes with the side of his hand, making Scumble’s eyes pop.

‘Answer the question,’ he said evenly.

‘Get fucked.’

‘Is he into drugs?’

No answer.

We tightened the ropes from neck to window until he was standing, and left him to his thoughts. Having forgotten to buy candles, we went to bed. The concrete was hard and cold through the sleeping bags. Even a heart-warming cuddle couldn’t keep the bogeyman at bay, and sleep was fitful until dawn. Scumble was nearly dead on his feet. I lengthened his ropes. He sagged onto his knees, breathing ragged.

I tried the salesman’s trick – first names.

‘No one knows you’re here, Ian. No one at all. If you do as we say – convincingly, we will feed you well, and if the outcome is successful, we will let you go.’

‘Like fuck you will.’

‘We will let you go. You’re no prize. Neither is Glaze. We want MacFife. He’s the one who took my inheritance. It’s all about money, Ian. You’re just a lump of useless shit. Certainly not worth a murder rap. When Frances died I should have inherited half her estate. It was in Max’s will. Do you know how much that is? Millions, Ian. Millions of dollars that should be mine.’

Fortunately for my credibility, Scumble was ignorant of the contents of Frances’s will. His eyes focused. Money was something he could understand.

‘But you also want revenge,’ he said with quiet certainty.

‘For what?’

‘What we did to you.’

‘You’re joking! You didn’t do anything. You failed. But I bet MacFife won’t fail when he discovers you and Bob couldn’t eliminate a naked bloke bound hand and foot. And when he realises the stripper who told lies about CC so he got you to snap her neck out the back of the gallery, was the same bloke whose neck you were supposed to snap at my place, what do you reckon he’ll do? Why should I bother with revenge when MacFife will do it for me?’ I smiled fetchingly and let that sink in. ‘Unless, of course, you help me get to him before he gets to you.’

He flicked me an indecipherable look.

I shrugged and continued as though it was neither here nor there. ‘I don’t blame you for what you’ve done. You were just doing your job. Not very well, but I imagine you were doing your best. No, Ian, I’m not interested in revenge, I just want my money.’

Scumble had gone a funny colour.

‘How’d you know about CC? The kids were all upstairs.’

‘Openings in roofs are not only for shoving people to their deaths; they also provide front row seats for porn shows.’

He turned to Jon. ‘So CC hadn’t been blabbing?’

Jon smiled evilly.

Scumble shook his head in guarded admiration.

‘Fuckin’ clever. You did me a favour; I hated that bitch.

‘Glad to be of help. Were the shows in that tent place in the hills any better?

‘It was you!’

‘What was?’

‘You set that fat pig free. You… You… Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!’ He spat, missing by miles.

‘And you,’ Jon grinned.

Scumble turned his face away and sulked; offended more than frightened. Time was disappearing. He had to be more frightened than offended. We shortened the noose ropes again until he was standing on his toes. Jon took out his knife and started cleaning his nails, looking speculatively at our victim.

‘Ian’s not circumcised, Peter. That’s unclean. We ought to set things to rights before he meets his maker.’

‘Good idea,’ I agreed, hoping he wasn’t serious.

Scumble nearly strangled himself when Jon pulled out his foreskin and pricked it with his knife, drawing a drop of blood. A high pitched humming squeezed through Scumble’s clenched teeth. My flesh crept.

‘How about infection?’ I asked innocently. ‘It smells as though he hasn’t washed that thing for a while. And shouldn’t you wear rubber gloves?’

‘Yeah, get me some. As for infection – the way he’s going he won’t live long enough for it to matter.’

I brought in a couple of plastic bags. Jon shoved his hands into them, grabbed the penis again and made another slight nick. Droplets became a trickle. Scumble slumped, gurgled, eyes popped. Swaying on his ropes. Jon slapped him across the face.

‘What are ya? A fucking girl? Come on, take it like a man. I know what I’m doing, I've castrated dozens of bulls and rams. Circumcising can’t be that much different. Hey!’ He turned to me excitedly. ‘Let’s castrate him at the same time.’

I shrugged, apparently indifferent.

‘Suits me. I’ll get a bucket for the blood.’ I left the room again. We were running out of bluff and I was beginning to panic. When I returned Jon was making another, deeper cut.

Scumble’s resolve collapsed. ‘OK! I’ll do anything! Anything! Just get that fucking knife away from me!’ His voice was high and hoarse, neck knotted with strain.

John looked up, disappointed. ‘Are you sure? I was just getting the hang of it.’

‘Of course I’m bloody sure! And you’ll let me go afterwards?’

‘As soon as MacFife’s in the same situation you’re in now.’

‘Just tell me what you want me to do.’ He sounded convincingly broken. But then he had managed to look sorry for CC just before breaking her neck.

We let him sit, fed him, gave him a bucket to shit in, threw water over his face and groin, and a rug over his shoulders to remind him that life would be better if he cooperated, and discussed the story he was going to use to set the trap for his boss and Glaze. It took the rest of the morning.

Scumble reckoned he knew nothing about MacFife’s business arrangements. As far as he knew, no drugs had been sold through the gallery. Indeed, he seemed confused by the idea. He was simply a bullyboy, a performer, and part-time pimp for a house of prostitutes further up the coast. In the middle of a discussion about how best to entice his boss to our lair, he began losing concentration so I wrote everything down for him while Jon went out and bought a pizza and bottle of wine. When he’d eaten we made him more or less comfortably secure, and left him to recover. He had to sound convincing.

I went outside to telephone. The Justice of the Peace Hank had recommended had a pleasant voice and was very friendly until I told him I was the bloke accused of murdering Frances. He drew an audible breath, but didn’t interrupt while I gave him an outline of my side of the story. I waited a full minute in silence before he snapped, ‘Why are you ringing me?’

‘Hank Fierney said you might help.’

‘How?’

I told him.

‘It’s going to be dangerous.’

‘Not for you, unless…’

‘Exactly.’ Another long silence. ‘Hank Fierney. It was Hank who recommended me to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Give me a call when you’re ready. I’ll keep the mobile switched on.’

Relief made me giggly. When I telephoned Rory to tell him we were running a day late, he asked if I’d been drinking. I told him the good news then went back to relieve Jon at his post.

Our prisoner slept like an innocent all afternoon and right through the night. It wasn’t a question of no brain, no pain, it was no conscience no insomnia. The following morning early we fed him well, freed one hand while keeping the nooses tight so he could wash himself and defecate in the bucket, and at six o'clock guided him through a dozen dummy runs with a block of wood instead of a phone. When he had his spiel off pat, I dialled the number he gave me. Nothing. No sound.

‘Flat battery?’

‘It’s brand new.’

‘Maybe the concrete’s insulating us.’

We encouraged Scumble to slither up the stairs onto the flat roof, and tried again.

‘It’s ringing.’

‘You’re a dead man if you stuff this up.’ Jon’s tone even convinced me.

Scumble’s face came to attention, his body tightened and a nervous twitch played with his lips. ‘How’s your mother…? Yeah, my mother’s well too…. Yeah, sorry boss, things got a bit hairy there for a while, but it’s all sorted… It was that fuckwit, Argyle. The cops picked him up for speeding, breathalysed him, searched the car and found grass. The bastard slimed his way out of it by naming me as the supplier! Then he reckoned he felt guilty and rang to warn me. Christ he’s dead meat… Yeah, it was a bit of a rush… I threw the hose and water around to warn you and give the cops something to think about… Na! I’m not stupid. The place is clean as a whistle. There’s nothing there… Yeah, you do that. Bloody Argyle needs topping. He’ll deny it of course. Fuckin’ slime ball… Yeah, I bloody know it’s two and a half days. I’m not stupid… Like I said, I couldn’t ring you because I left my mobile behind in the rush. I wrapped the kid in sheets and didn’t realise till this morning that he had one in his pocket... Yeah, I know I should’ve looked… OK. OK! Here’s the number.’

Jon passed him a paper and Scumble read it out, then listened to a long diatribe from MacFife before butting in angrily.

‘I nicked a fuckin’ ute from the basement car-park, that’s fuckin’ how… Why the fuck would I run out on you? I was protecting you! Making sure I hadn’t been followed! That’s why I left it a couple of days before contacting you! Because I didn’t want you walking into a trap! …Yeah, that’s right. If I’d been followed they might have been lying in wait to see who joined me.’

Scumble was irritated and that was excellent. Much more convincing than crawling. ‘Exactly!’ he sighed in exasperation. ‘That’s exactly why I didn’t go near the gallery... I’ve got me a perfect place for the moment, but I need Bob to spell me, and you to make the bugger talk. I’ve been a bit heavy handed, so it’s best if you take over while he’s still got a mouth he can talk out of. What’s a fuckin’ cert is that he knows more than’s good for us, and he’s told someone else. But he’s an irritating cunt and I’m gunna get so mad I’ll kill the bugger before he tells me everything… Ha, ha. Beaut… Right. Here’s where we are…’

Jon leaned over and switched off the phone.

‘What the fuck?’

‘If you give directions now, even if you tell him not to come until twelve-thirty, there’s nothing to stop him checking out the place. Then he’d see Rory and the JP arrive.’

My spine tingled. How many other things had we forgotten? The phone shrilled. It would be MacFife, wondering what had happened.

‘Hang on!’ Jon stared at Scumble. ‘When you answer it, speak very quietly. Tell him about having to come up on the roof because the walls are so thick, and some kids are hanging around outside and you ducked so they couldn’t see or hear you, and inadvertently shut off the phone. Tell him the building’s locked and these are the first people you’ve seen near the place, so it’s perfectly safe, but midday will be best when everyone’s at lunch. If he asks the address, pretend you can’t hear, the reception’s fading, and you’ll ring him at twelve if the coast’s clear.’

Scumble, frowning in concentration, whispered into the mouthpiece. ‘Yep, it’s me again. Sorry about that,’ and followed Jon’s instructions almost verbatim. He was shaking when he disconnected. ‘He’s suspicious.’ He looked across at me in fear. ‘It wasn’t my fault! You heard me. I did my best.’

‘Yeah. You were bloody good, Ian. Take it easy.’

Jon brought us back to reality. ‘We’ve got two and a half hours.’

Scumble’s protests at being bound and gagged again in his room were stopped by a pull on the neck ropes. I went back up to the roof and telephoned Rory and the JP.

Rory, in overalls and heavy boots, arrived within the hour. He parked his ute in an adjoining street and jogged over with a holdall from which he took his shotgun, a pump-action .22, a vicious-looking knife with a zigzag blade, a pair of sports trousers, flowered shirt, shoes and socks.

He and Jon went in to Scumble’s room, untied him and told him to get dressed. I removed the slop bucket then waited out at the road trying not to panic, certain I’d forgotten something. A snazzy little metallic-gold sports car zipped in to the kerb. I got in and we drove a couple of blocks away to park. Matthew Kingstone, in baggy beige knee-length shorts, white shirt and leather scuffs, was tall, skinny and palely freckled, with short-cropped auburn hair, looking nothing like any Justice of the Peace I’d ever seen. He offered an engaging smile, tripped over his feet, dropped his briefcase, laughed and suggested I carry the camcorder if we wanted it to arrive in working order.

Showing no surprise at Scumble, now dressed in the smaller room, he asked us to remove the gag. After introducing himself, he told Scumble he was here to get the real facts, his voice suggesting that everyone except Ian was a liar. Ian relaxed. Matthew set the camcorder on the floor, checked the viewfinder, set it going, and began chatting. But the camera unnerved Scumble. Rory’s knife pushing his Adam’s apple a millimetre or two out of alignment magically freed his inhibitions. Rory withdrew and went downstairs to keep guard.

Then we couldn’t stop him. Matthew’s grunts of compassion and comprehension, coupled with sympathetic tuts of commiseration fuelled the confession and denouncement of his corrupt and vile former boss. In Scumble’s bosom dwelt a simple, peace-loving soul, desiring nothing more than the chance to live an honest, law-abiding life. He had been an unwilling slave for nigh on five years, after hitting someone too hard during a game of cards. It was an accident, but when the bloke died, MacFife convinced him that if the cops got to him he’d spend the rest of his useful years in jail.

He admitted to pushing Max over the edge of the dome, but it too was an accident. He’d just decided to disobey MacFife’s orders and not murder Max, when Bob Glaze pushed his arm. So it was Bob’s fault. When bulldozing the rocks onto me, he had deliberately missed me and tried to create a cave so I could dig myself out. Thus, he had saved my life. Frances had attacked him with a knife. In self-defence, and not realising his own strength, he had accidentally knocked her down the stairs and killed her.

Of course he’d had no intention of snapping Jon’s neck! He was only waiting for a chance to immobilise Bob before letting Jon go. Patrick arrived before he could manage that. He had pleaded with Bob to let Patrick go, but when they telephoned MacFife, he insisted they imprison him, so their hands were tied. He had tried, ever since the capture, to find an excuse to go up to the hills to release the poor man, and he only discovered Patrick had escaped because he had secretly gone, that very day, to release him.

As for CC, it was a dreadful accident. MacFife had forced drugs on him earlier in the evening, knowing they would blow his mind and he would be unable to control his strength. So when he learned CC was blackmailing them, he took her outside to persuade her to stop. He’d only intended to frighten her and hadn't realised how fragile her neck was. He directed a trusting gaze at Matthew.

‘Thanks, Ian. That will certainly convince everyone of your true character. You’ve been very wise and brave. Well done!’ He leaned forward to shake the misunderstood man’s hand, but was wrapped in a bear-hug. I released the safety-catch on the .22, and Jon stepped behind, ready to slit Scumble’s throat. He looked up, apparently surprised.

‘Hey! Cool it. I only want to hug the first man to try and understand me.’

‘Let him go.’

‘I thought you trusted me?’

‘It’s the old problem of actions and words.’

Scumble looked stupid, and suddenly I realised that he was. He was cunning-dumb and I almost felt a pang of pity. Almost.

‘We believe you, Ian, but you have to prove it by finishing the job.’

‘You’re right, Peter.’ He blushed and looked almost shy. ‘Is it OK if I call you Peter?’

‘You can call me on the phone, if you like.’

He thought I was laughing at him and a flash of anger flickered, to be quickly replaced by the usual expressionless stare. My guts turned queasy.

He turned to Matthew. ‘I’ve just thought of something. I reckon MacFife won’t come inside unless he sees me.’

‘So?’

‘So you’re going to have to let me go down and talk to him. If I just shout down from the window, he won’t come up. He’s suspicious already.’

Matthew looked at us. ‘This is your department, gentlemen. ‘I’m merely your quasi-legal eyes and ears.’

We argued for a bit, then Rory came up with the solution. We’d let Scumble do as he suggested, but a length of nylon fishing line would be round his neck, trailing invisibly up the stairs. We went over everything again. I reminded Scumble that MacFife would kill him if he found out the truth, so he’d better keep all his hopes in our boat. He nodded distractedly.

Having twenty minutes to spare we went over the plan again. Rory would wait in the downstairs changing rooms with his loaded shotgun in case someone stayed behind in the car. If they did, he’d capture them. If both went upstairs, he’d follow and prevent their escape. No one dared think about what we’d do if half a dozen thugs arrived.

Jon and I would be out of sight at the top of the stairs, hanging on to the nylon noose round Scumble's neck. Matthew would wait with his gear in the smaller room ready to record two more confessions, and Scumble would wait at the foot of the stairs, ready to welcome MacFife, allay his suspicions, and usher him up.

‘Hang on,’ I said. ‘What’s going to happen to the line when Ian comes back upstairs?’ I slipped it round my neck and tried it. It was hopeless. The line curled, tangled, knotted and tripped me. We’d have to trust him.

‘If big-boy runs for it, I’m waiting with the shotgun.’

‘You can’t watch two people.’

‘I’ve got two barrels, but to make certain, you wait at the window with the rifle until I shout, Jon. Just make bloody sure the guys in the car don’t see you.’

In the increasingly unlikely event that we managed to lure them upstairs, Jon would cover them and Scumble with the rifle while I immobilised them. We had rope, lumps of wood, and not much else. If Scumble decided to change allegiance, we’d had it. If MacFife had a gun, we’d had it. If … so many ifs.

I avoided looking at Matthew’s increasingly pale and worried face.

It was twelve o'clock. Back on the roof, Scumble telephoned MacFife. ‘Yeah. Gidday, Boss. Everything’s clear. No one’s been near since I called last. It’s a fuckin’ cemetery, so you can come on over… Whadaya mean I didn’t tell you? I bloody did. Jeeze, must be getting old timer’s.’ He laughed unconvincingly, gave precise directions and disconnected. ‘Fuck I need another piss. This is bloody nerve wracking.’ He leaned over the edge and urinated down the wall.

My Mercedes, in need of a wash and polish, drew up at the bottom of the stairs where Scumble waited. He’d complained about the flowery shirt, reckoned it was a give-away as he’d never be seen dead in a poncy thing like that. We convinced him MacFife would think it was a brilliant disguise. Rory hovered unseen and unseeing in the gloom of the changing rooms below. I peered down on Scumble’s bristly head and massive shoulders from the top of the stairs. Jon, .22 at the ready, squatted under the window. Matthew waited in the back room. The air was utterly still. Not a breath stirred the dying leaves. No sound came from either the town or the marshes beyond the low dunes.

The car window whined down and MacFife said, ‘Raise your hands above your head, Ian, and no sudden moves. It’s not that I don’t trust you, simply a precaution.’

Scumble raised his hands. ‘No worries, Boss. I don’t trust no one neither.’

‘Very wise,’ replied MacFife.

Two almost inaudible pops, and Scumble collapsed onto the bottom step where he twitched and kicked several times before rolling onto his side. A trickle of blood stained the flowered shirt and ran on to the concrete. Silence for several very long seconds, then Glaze’s voice, ‘I reckon it’s all clear, Boss.’

The murder left me blank. We’d planned for everything except that. I froze. Jon looked a question, and Rory, unaware of the killing and unable to see what was happening, stayed listening for someone to go upstairs. Matthew later said he was wetting himself in the back room.

Two shadows crossed the threshold at the foot of the stairs and a suede shoe nudged Scumble’s thigh. I scuttled across to Jon and whispered, ‘They shot Scumble.’ We tiptoed into the back room, closed the door, warned Matthew to silence with fingers to the lips, and flattened ourselves behind the door. There was nowhere else to hide.

Glaze and MacFife made no noise on the stairs and didn’t speak. I was nearly insane with fear when the door burst open, slamming against my knee.

Glaze grunted. ‘The fuckin’ place’s empty.’

MacFife’s voice, ‘Behind the door.’

Glaze leaped into the room, landing on his toes facing us, handgun at the ready – just like the movies. Before his heels touched the ground, Jon’s discharging rifle smashed my eardrums and something burned the side of my head above the left ear. Glaze spun back, gun flying as he clutched at his shoulder.

In the eerie silence we heard MacFife run down the stairs into the waiting arms of Rory. But what had seemed like hours to us upstairs, had been less than a minute. Rory, unaware Scumble had been shot, had remained at his post to cover the car and be available when we shouted. As soon as he heard the rifle he broke cover, raced for the stairs and tripped over Scumble’s body. Before he could pick himself up, MacFife knocked him flying. He fell against the steps, gashing his arm.

I raced downstairs to find Rory scrabbling for his gun, and the Mercedes racing away. Rory cursed and shook his fist, then turned to me in despair. Blood was pouring from a deep cut on his upper arm.

‘Come on, let’s get back upstairs before the neighbours get curious,’ I said, brushing sweat from my eyes. My hand came away bloody.