south.
“Where’s he going?” she asked, and realised it was a silly question.
“South,” Taylor said, and turned to her and smiled quickly. “Patience,” he added. “Patience.”
He had to concentrate on the driving because the Nepean was awash with cars. It was busy at the best of times, but the traffic changed, slowed and then reached the maximum of 80, bunched and made it difficult for him to keep up with the Nissan. And lots of lights. And big trucks that blocked his view. He had visions of seeing Green on a side road as they sped by, trapped on the highway until the next exit.
After Mordialloc the nature of the Highway changed, narrower, running almost totally straight and flat, and only a block back from the Bay. They couldn’t see the water. The traffic had thinned out, but the changes in the road and flow still required Taylor to concentrate heavily.
They were silent as they drove along. He snatched glances at her and each time her eyes were staring ahead, her head moving slightly when the Nissan overtook another car and she temporarily lost sight of it. Her hands were clenched in her lap.
Two nights ago he’d asked her: “He’s important, is he? Christie?”
She ‘d looked at him, determination in her eyes and said, simply, “Yes. Very important.”
And he’d agreed to help her. He’d poured himself a scotch and they’d talked until two in the morning. Until they were happy with what had to be done.
They slowed down for the trip through Frankston, shops, pedestrians, slower traffic and then the Nissan turned left and joined the Frankston - Flinders Road. Mornington Peninsula, Taylor thought.
He’d balked at mention of the gun, but she’d insisted.
“There’s no other way,” she’d said, and he’d nodded.
The following day he’d spent an hour at home when he knew he was to be alone. He took the polished wooden box out of the locked cabinet in his study and sat in the garage to check the two pistols that the box held. Two Sig-Sauer P220s. They’d both originally been 7.65mm calibre pistols, but he’d converted both while in Vietnam to 9mm Parabellum. He stripped them down and checked the parts, and re-assembled them. He’d loaded both with nine round magazines. Then he’d wrapped both of them, together with two spare loaded magazines and one silencer, in a towel and into the small leather carry bag. He’d kept the bag under the front seat of the cab ever since. And it was there now.
They crossed the Mornington Peninsula Freeway and the amount of traffic dropped dramatically.
“This is going to be harder,” he said, watching the Nissan as the gap in front of him drew wider.
“You’ll lose him,” she said.
“It’s either that or alert him to the fact that he is being followed. Which do you want?” He knew it wasn’t a fair question. Quickly, he added, “I’ll try my best to keep him in sight, but I can’t get too close to him. He’ll ...”
“To the left! He’s turned off!”
“I see,” he said calmly.
He didn’t know the area too well. Names on the signposts were familiar - Somerville, Hastings, Balnarring - but he’d lost his sense of direction. Were they heading south still, or had Green doubled back somehow? Had he noticed the car behind him?
Overhead the clouds gathered, thick and black. On the horizon a narrow strip of light between clouds and the ground. It was getting dark.
And then they lost Green.
“He turned here, I know he did.”
“I saw him, too,” she said, frustration in her voice.
The road stretched out ahead of them, long, flat, and straight. Empty.
Taylor put his foot on the accelerator and sped down the road, slowing as the reached the first intersection. They both looked down it. Nothing. He sped on to the next one. Nothing. They could not make out where the next intersection was.
“If we can’t see it now, he couldn’t have got to it before we came onto this road.”
“Which means he turned off onto one of these two roads.”
“Which?”
They looked at each other and Taylor said, “The first one.”
She nodded and he turned the car. They’d lost maybe two minutes. He reached the intersection and turned. Again, nothing on the road in front of them. He accelerated.
“Got him,” Taylor said.
“What? Where?”
“Back there.”
He drove on, giving no sign of stopping.
“Where are you going? We’ve got to ...”
“It’s okay.”
Taylor turned at the next road and pulled over to one side.
“There was a driveway back there. My side of the road. There was a great line of trees alongside the road.”
“I remember it,” she said.
“There was a driveway in the middle of the line of trees and our Mr Green had driven in and was locking the gate that covered the driveway. Come on, we’ll drive back.” He turned the taxi. “I want you to study as much of the place as you can. We’ll only be able to drive past once. Any more and we could draw too much attention. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The line of trees was obvious alongside the road ahead of them. Thick, tall trees that also formed a boundary running a long way back from the road, until it merged into a large shed or garage on another, adjoining property. The trees were so closely together that it was impossible to see what was behind them. And nothing showed above them.
As they drove past the fence was clearer to see. It was metal mesh, maybe three metres high, topped with a line of barbed wire, and it was almost totally screened by the trees and bushes either side of it. The gates were shorter by maybe a metre and held together by a long and thick chain and heavy padlock. A simple metal plate to one side of the gate said DRUMMOYNE HOUSE, and Private Property. As they drove past, she turned and looked down the other boundary of the property. It was the same as the other side - thick high trees that gave away nothing.
“Well?”
“We’ve got nothing else to go on,” she answered.
“Then let’s try it tonight.”
Taylor re-traced some of their tracks, and then headed for Hastings, situated on the eastern side of the Peninsula and overlooking Westernport Bay. They walked along the foreshore and onto the jetty. There was lightning over French Island and beyond, and it was coming their way.
“Could be useful weather,” Taylor said.
