Old Scores by Whish-Wilson David

Author:Whish-Wilson, David
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Published: 2016-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

25.

Des Foley pulled the sliding door that led onto the second-floor balcony and waited until his eyes adjusted to the light. He wasn’t alone in the apartment – a cleaner who’d left the front door ajar was vacuuming in the next room. He slipped out onto the balcony and looked over the gardens that rose to the edge of the native scrub fronting Kings Park. His backpack was crammed with food taken from Mostel’s apartment – canned fish, pastrami, four types of cheese, different biscuits and dried fruit and nuts – good for a week’s rations, and the best way to avoid spending time in shops where he’d be recognised. Leaning over, he dropped the backpack onto a woolly bush that sank upon impact. Foley followed the bag over and landed on the jarrah-bark mulch around the garden. He remained in a crouch until the pain in his ankles subsided and hoisted the backpack and headed towards the sheltering bush. It was then that he saw them – saw that they’d seen him too. A big man in leathers, perched over a trail bike too small for him, helmet on. And a young man in an Alpha Romeo sedan, sunglasses and pink shirt, parked up the street facing the river.

Not coppers.

Foley fingered the butt of his pistol and headed for the bush. He heard the dirt bike rev and kick into gear. The scrub was thick with wild oats and juvenile sheoak, creeping ground shrubs that he stepped over as he pushed himself deeper into the park. He’d watched the helicopter from Mostel’s balcony, doing a grid search over the one thousand acres of the park – an obvious place to look for him, camped in the scrub. That the coppers were looking but not asking told him they’d forced a media ban on the local newspapers and stations – for how long he didn’t know.

Foley made the crest of the hill and waited in a stand of bull banksia. He could hear the trail bike gunning up the path and looked around for something heavy. There weren’t any rocks or branches so he took out his gun and clicked off the safety. When the bike was near he stepped towards the path and aimed, and when the bike turned the corner he stepped closer and shot the rider three times in the chest. The noise of the .22 was lost in the strafe of the two-stroke engine that died as the rider slid off the path and rolled into the grey dirt and was still. Foley knelt on the man’s back and searched the sky for the chopper and looked down the path for the Alpha driver, who’d have to be on foot. With his pistol pressed into the man’s neck, he searched his pockets and came up with a facsimile mugshot of himself, taken from his last stretch in Pentridge. Whoever got the photograph had connections. It was the most recent photo of Foley in existence, although two years old now.

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