Pay Dirt by Garry Disher Page A

wall-mounted
tools at the rear of the shed. Place his thumb down there, Trigg said,
pointing at the top of the bench.

    The front of Venabless trousers
were wet. He didnt speak, just closed his eyes and swayed a little.

    When the blow came he opened them,
and groaned and went limp. Happy held him up. Not much of a bounce, Trigg said,
looking in mock surprise at the head of the mallet. He dropped it on the floor,
its steel head striking a gouge in the cement, and reached for Venabless hand.
Youre going to have a nasty black nail there soon, old son.

    Venables was moaning, looking sick.
Trigg stroked the back of the injured hand, letting the tips of his fingers
brush across the thumb nail. Blood was welling under the nail. The pressures
building up, Trigg said. We should do something about that. Hap, put Mr
Venabless thumb in the vice. Not too tight.

    No, Venables said. He was helpless and
rubbery on his feet.

    Trigg waited until the thumb was
ready, then took a Stanley knife down from its bracket on the wall of tools. It
had a sharp, pointed blade. Happy used it for trimming upholstery.

    Your poor thumb, he said, and he
bent over it and began to pick a hole in the centre of the nail. Venables went
white but watched, fascinated. In fact, Trigg was doing him a favour, but it
all looked like the end to Venables.

    Suddenly the blade cut through to
the blood. It spurted out, then beaded, and Trigg said, Now, isnt that
better?

    You bastard.

    One grand, this time tomorrow, when
you bring the van in for servicing.

    I havent got it. Ill pay you some
other way, anything you like, but I havent got it in cash.

    Trigg began to push Venables out of
the shed in a series of bitter shoves. You might live to regret that offer.
Bugger off out of here.

    Then he stopped. A car transporter
was outside, jutting half across the street as it backed in, the reversing
signal beeping. The sight unhinged him, bringing back the pain. A Saab and a
Mercedes, both newish, both black. Not only didnt the locals buy expensive
models any more, they didnt buy black ones, not where the roads are dusty
three-quarters of the year and muddy the rest of the time. And another batch of
pills and videos that no one wanted.

    * * * *

    EIGHTEEN

    The
more Letterman thought about it the more pissed off he felt about Loman. Loman
knew about Wyatt but hadnt said anything. Loman had made him look foolish.

    The feeling grew after his meeting
with Snyder. Hed settled in at the motel to wait until the flight left on
Monday morning, but hed made the mistake of reading an 87th Precinct novel and
that had been the last straw. He had to do something about Loman.

    On Sunday evening he backed the
Fairmont out of the motel car park and drove to a service station on
Beaconsfield Parade. Here he bought two one-litre containers of engine oil. He
drove out of the service station and turned left into a dark, narrow side
street. He parked the car, got out, poured the oil into the nearest stormwater
drain. He got back into the car and made the long drive to Lomans hardware
business in Preston. Just before he got there he pulled into a Mobil self-serve
and filled the tank with unleaded. No one saw him also fill the two empty oil
containers with the fuel. He filled them to the top: he didnt want fumes building
up in them.

    Loman ran a big place, taking up
one-third of a block at the end of a shopping centre. The N in his name on the
sign above the entrance was back to front. The main building was a long, low
hardware supermarket fronting onto the street. Behind it was a large storage
shed next to a paved area cluttered with do-it-yourself garden shed kits,
sample brick walls, and piles of soil and gravel in shades ranging from
pinkish-grey to black. A high pine-board fence surrounded the whole place.

    In the far corner, well back from
the street, was Lomans house, a four-room transportable building resting on
wooden blocks. Letterman approached it cautiously, alert for a dog or