The Bat(65)

He threw the ball into the air and caught it again in front of the pale Warrior Prince’s face.

‘And do you know what? I agree. A ball slung straight in the face from a distance of four metres – it was a sheer, utter miracle you survived. Your solicitor rang me at work today wanting to know the precise course of events. He thinks there are grounds for compensation, at least if you have long-term damage. Your solicitor belongs to that breed of vulture that allocates itself a third of the reparations, but he’s probably told you that, hasn’t he? I asked him why he hadn’t managed to persuade you to sue. He thought it was just a question of time. So now I’m wondering: is it just a question of time, Genghis?’

Genghis shook his head warily. ‘No. Please go now,’ came a weak gurgle.

‘But why not? What have you got to lose? If you were to become incapacitated there are big bucks in a case like this. Remember, you’re not suing a poor, private individual, you’re suing the state. I’ve checked and seen that you’ve even managed to keep your nose more or less clean. So who knows, a jury might uphold your claim and make you a millionaire. But you don’t even want to try?’

Genghis didn’t answer, just stared at Harry with his slanting, sorrowful eyes beneath the white bandage.

‘I’m getting sick of sitting in this hospital, Genghis, so I’ll make this brief. Your assault on me resulted in two broken ribs and a punctured lung. Since I was not in uniform, did not show ID and wasn’t working under the auspices of the police department, and Australia is beyond my area of jurisdiction, the authorities have declared that from a legal point of view I was acting as a private person and not as a civil servant. In other words, I can decide whether I report you for violent assault or not. Which brings us back to your relatively clean record. You see, there is a matter of a conditional sentence for grievous bodily harm hanging over your head, is that not correct? Add six months to this and we’re up to a year. A year, or you could tell me . . .’ he went up to the ear that was sticking out from Genghis Khan’s bandaged head like a pink mushroom and shouted, ‘. . . WHAT THE HELL’S GOING ON!’

Harry dropped back on his chair.

‘So what do you say?’





31


A Fat Lady


McCORMACK STOOD WITH his back to Harry, his arms crossed and a hand propping up his chin while staring out of the window. The thick mist had erased the colours and frozen movement so that the view was more like a blurred black-and-white picture of the town. The silence was broken by a tapping noise. Harry eventually realised it was McCormack’s fingernails drumming on the teeth in his upper jaw.

‘So Kensington knew Otto Rechtnagel. And you were aware of that all along.’

Harry shrugged. ‘I know I should have said before, sir. But I didn’t feel—’

‘—it was your business to say who Andrew Kensington knew or didn’t know. Fair enough. But now Kensington’s done a runner, no one knows where he is and you suspect mischief?’

Harry nodded confirmation to his back.

McCormack watched him in the window reflection. Then he swivelled round in a semi-pirouette to stand face to face with Harry.

‘You seem a bit . . .’ he completed the pirouette and had his back to him again, ‘. . . restless, Holy. Is something bothering you? Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?’

Harry shook his head.

Otto Rechtnagel’s flat was in Surry Hills; to be exact, on the road between the Albury and Inger Holter’s room in Glebe. A mountain of a woman was blocking their way up the stairs when they arrived.

‘I saw the car. Are you the police?’ she asked in a high-pitched, shrill voice, and continued without waiting for an answer. ‘You can hear the dog yourselves. It’s been like that since this morning.’

They heard the hoarse barking from behind the door marked Otto Rechtnagel.

‘It’s sad about Mr Rechtnagel, it is, but now you’ve got to take his dog. It’s been barking non-stop and it’s driving us all out of our minds. You shouldn’t be allowed to keep dogs here. Unless you do something we’ll be forced to . . . er, well, you know what I mean.’

The woman rolled her eyes and thrust out two podgy arms. There was an immediate tang of sweat and compensatory perfume. Harry disliked her intensely.

‘Dogs know,’ Lebie said, running two fingers over the balustrade and examining his forefinger with disapproval.

‘What do you mean by that, young man?’ the fat woman asked, dropping her arms to her sides and still looking as if she had no intention of moving.

‘It knows its master is dead, ma’am,’ Harry said. ‘Dogs have a sixth sense about things like that. It’s grieving.’