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had to get our skates on! Lugging a half-dead body out the gate and hoisting him into the back of
the ute might have raised a few local eyebrows, so I changed into a pair of MacFife s trousers and a
blazer, wandered down the hill to Glaze s place, drove the ute back to the car park and swapped it
for the Porsche, which carried me rather more firmly than I d expected, back to MacFife s villa.
The remote door-control in the glove box opened the garage doors. Glaze was comfortable enough
in the front, but it was a bit of a squeeze for Jon in the back. I dropped him in town to wait for
Matthew, then drove till I found a chemist s for painkillers, disinfectant and dressings.
Glaze s voice was faint.  Am I going to die?
 Of course! We all are. Now, be brave.
He swallowed three tablets and was brave while I disinfected his wounds, scraped away rot and
applied a dressing.
Jon and Matthew were composing Glaze s confession when I pulled up. Glaze took Jon s place
beside Matthew, Jon and I squeezed in the back.
 How long have we got?
 Five minutes.
 Will Glaze speak?
 No. I ll read it to them, they ll type it out, ask Glaze if he agrees, he ll sign it, and that s it.  He
passed the statement across.  Have we left anything out?
It was beautifully simple. After declaring he had been abducted by MacFife from hospital, held
prisoner and denied medical treatment, Glaze admitted to being present on the roof of the gallery
when, acting on MacFife s instructions, Scumble had pushed Max to his death. He also expressed
regret at not stopping Scumble from snapping Frances s neck and throwing her down the stairs 
again on MacFife s instructions. Concerning his own injuries and the death of Scumble, he stated
that MacFife had had an argument with Scumble, who drew his gun. Glaze stepped in front of
MacFife, copping the bullet in his shoulder, but managed to drop Scumble - in self-defence.
There was no mention of CC, Patrick, Jon or me. Patrick wouldn t want his adventure known, and
if anyone asked questions about CC, the cops could mount their own investigation. All we wanted
was to prove our innocence of Frances murder. This would do it. The police didn t want us on any
other counts - we hoped.
 Excellent.
Matthew grinned proudly and Jon produced takeaway sandwiches and coffees. Glaze managed a
few mouthfuls. Sweat was dripping from him as Matthew helped him from the car and across the
road to the Police Station. After what seemed like years, but was about three-quarters of an hour,
Matthew came out, got into his car and drove away. We caught up with him at the old show-
grounds.
The cops had been totally professional, ready with tape recorder and video in an interview room.
Matthew had read out the statement and, while it was being typed, arrangements were made for
hospitalisation. As soon as the statements were ready Glaze had signed them and was whisked
away.
 They asked how I d become involved, and Glaze mumbled something about being sick of
running away, and using the yellow pages to find a JP. Then they asked him where MacFife was.
 And?
 He had no idea.
 Excellent. Do you think they believed him?
 No idea. You know the cops. Never give anything away. With those faces they should all be
poker champs.
I handed Matthew ten of MacFife s hundred-dollar notes, and the eighteen ledger books.  For your
next thousand dollars, see if you can make sense of these. They were locked in his safe. We re
looking for proof of illegal activities, drug dealing, prostitution rackets  that sort of thing. We must
have it sorted before letting him go.
Mathew grinned.  I ll start immediately.
 And when will you know if they re any use?
 I ll ring you. He waved and drove away.
Anticlimax. We were almost there. All we had to do now was make sure MacFife wasn t in a
position to convince the cops that Glaze had been lying. That depended on Matthew and the ledgers.
There was nothing to do but wait, and I ve never been good at that. As long as I m doing something
 anything, I can function. But waiting, depending on someone else  I m always sure they don t
care enough to do their best. Half the things I buy have something missing, fall to bits, or don t
work. I twice used tradesmen when building my cottage. The bloke who poured the concrete slab
put the shower next to the bed and forgot to put in drains for the sink. The electrician forgot to earth
the place. I was lucky the inspector checked. And how about the planet? As that funny guy said on
TV the other night, if Earth was a rental property we d never get our bond back.
It was too early to go back to the old house, but even if it wasn t, I couldn t bear the sight of
MacFife. We d dumped his soiled clothes, so we had to get replacements for when we let him loose,
and as Jon pointed out, if his car was seen driving into his garage and the lights came on at night,
he d have a tough time convincing anyone he d been held prisoner. I looked nothing like him, but
the car windows were tinted and I wore his driving cap that I'd found on the back seat. With Jon
concealed under the dash, I drove noisily up to his house, the way he used to arrive to pick up
Frances, lifted a polite finger to an elderly man who nodded vaguely at the car, opened the garage
doors and drove in, gunning the engine before killing it.
I appreciated the house more the second time round. The pool was deep and clear, the spa hot, and
the view across Laguna Bay and up the Cooloola coast, stunning. We stripped and soaked in the
spa, moaning at the luxury of slow immersion into hot water. It was the first time I d relaxed for
what seemed like a lifetime. After a dip in the cold pool we warmed ourselves again in the spa
before letting ourselves into the house.
The interior, although as hugely ostentatious as before, began to suggest ways in which it could be
rendered less impersonal. We trailed water up the stairs in search of towels, then, warm and dry,
checked out MacFife s boudoir. His bed was unmade and smelled unclean, so we settled for the
equally comfortable guestroom and relieved all the tensions the spa hadn t reached. Afterwards, for
the first time since the nightmare began, we speculated seriously about our future. It became dark.
We turned on plenty of lights, made ourselves a snack from the pathetic contents of the kitchen,
selected a change of clothes from our host s elegant wardrobe, and reluctantly prepared to leave.
 Imagine living here alone. It d be bloody depressing.
 He must have friends who ring him - and visit.
 You re a genius.
 What do you mean?
 Check the answering machine.
There were three messages from a pleasant-sounding woman who called herself Ishbel, asking [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]