The Bat(42)

‘Kebab with Greek salad,’ Borroughs answered. ‘Today’s special, seven dollars.’

‘Sorry, let me rephrase,’ Harry said. ‘I mean, what kind of people do you serve? What’s your clientele like?’

‘I reckon it’s what you’d call the underclass.’ He gave a forbearing smile. It said a lot about Borrough’s adult working life and his dream to turn the bar into something.

‘Are they regulars?’ Harry asked, nodding to a dark corner of the room and the five men drinking beer at a table.

‘Yup. Most here are. We’re not exactly on the tourist map.’

‘Would you mind if I asked them a few questions?’ Harry asked.

Borroughs hesitated. ‘Those blokes aren’t exactly mummy’s boys. I don’t know how they earn their cash, and I don’t intend to ask them, either. But they don’t work nine to five, let’s put it that way.’

‘No one likes innocent young girls being raped and strangled in the district, do they. Not even people with a foot on either side of the law. It frightens people away and isn’t good for business whatever you’re selling.’

Borroughs rubbed and polished a glass. ‘I’d tread carefully if I were you.’

Harry nodded to Borroughs, and walked slowly towards the corner table so they would have time to see him. One of them got up before he came too close. He folded his arms and revealed a tattooed dagger on a bulging forearm.

‘This corner’s taken, blondie,’ he said in a voice so gruff that it seemed to be only air.

‘I have a question—’ Harry started, but the gruff man was already shaking his head. ‘Just one. Does anyone here know this man, Evans White?’ Harry held up the photo.

Until now the two who were facing him had just been staring at him, more bored than outright hostile. At the mention of White’s name, they examined him with renewed interest, and Harry noted that the necks of the two men facing the other way were twitching.

‘Never heard of him,’ the gruff man said. ‘We’re in the middle of a personal . . . conversation here, mate. See you.’

‘That conversation wouldn’t involve the turnover of substances that are illegal according to Australian law, would it?’ Harry asked.

Long silence. He had adopted a perilous strategy. Undisguised provocation was a tactic you could resort to if you had decent backup or good escape routes. Harry had neither. He just thought it was time things started happening.

One neck stood up. And up. It had almost reached the ceiling when it turned and showed its ugly, pockmarked front. A silky moustache underlined the oriental features of the man.

‘Genghis Khan! Good to see you. I thought you were dead!’ Harry exclaimed, putting out his hand.

Khan opened his mouth. ‘Who are you?’

It sounded like a death rattle. Any death-metal band would have killed for a vocalist with that kind of a bass gurgle.

‘I’m a policeman and I don’t believe—’

‘Ayy-dii.’ Khan peered down at Harry from the ceiling.

‘Pardon?’

‘The badge.’

Harry was aware the situation demanded more than his plastic card with a passport photo issued by Oslo Police Force.

‘Has anyone told you that you have the same voice as the singer in Sepultura . . . what’s his name now?’

Harry put a finger under his chin and looked as if he was racking his brains. The gruff man was on his way round the table. Harry pointed to him.

‘And you’re Rod Stewart, aren’t you? Aha, you’re sitting here and planning Live Aid 2 and s—’

The punch hit Harry in the teeth. He stood swaying with a hand to his mouth.

‘May I take it that you don’t think I have a future as a stand-up?’ Harry enquired. He studied his fingers. There was blood, spit and something soft which he could only assume was pulp from the inside of his tooth.

‘Shouldn’t pulp be red?’ he asked Rod, holding up his fingers.

Rod scrutinised Harry sceptically before leaning over and looking closer at the white bits.

‘That’s the bone, from under the enamel,’ he opined. ‘Old man’s a dentist,’ he explained to the others. Then he took a step back and struck again. For a moment everything went black for Harry, but he still found himself standing when daylight returned.

‘See if you can find some pulp now,’ Rod said with curiosity.

Harry knew it was stupid, the summation of all his experience and common sense told him it was stupid, his aching jaw said it was stupid, but unfortunately his right hand thought it was a brilliant idea and at that moment it was in charge. It hit Rod on the tip of the chin and Harry heard the crunch of Rod’s jaw closing before he staggered back two paces, which is the inevitable consequence of a perfectly placed uppercut.