Vanished

by James Delargy

  ‘I recognize him. He had a lot of gold on his hands. Nuggets, shavings, dust. Too much for me. He refused to provide a name or ID either. I’m no fool, miss.’

  ‘Detective,’ said Emmaline. ‘And her?’

  He shook his head. ‘I would remember her. Not often I get two pretty women in my humble shop.’

  ‘Usually you’d have to pay them,’ she replied, unable to hold back.

  The man’s eyes darted towards Oily who stood in the background.

  ‘Don’t expect any help from me,’ said Oily. ‘You dug your own grave.’

  ‘How much was he trying to sell?’ asked Emmaline, refocusing the dealer’s attention.

  ‘Just under an ounce.’

  ‘And how much would that get?’

  ‘Fourteen hundred,’ said the dealer, stuttering a little.

  ‘And are you sure you didn’t buy any?’ asked Emmaline, her eyes boring into the washed-up letch’s face.

  ‘None. I wasn’t buying.’

  ‘But I bet you sent him to someone who was. I bet I could find them on that computer of yours,’ said Emmaline, nodding at it.

  ‘That’s private property.’

  ‘And this man may be involved in a series of brutal murders. So, give me a name.’

  * * *

  The name they got was for a guy who worked out of a pub on Feldman’s. Cooper warned them that the place was rough, frequented by bikers, hoods, anyone who was looking for action or trouble. Emmaline decided to test that.

  Being late afternoon, it looked quiet, just a few bikes and cars dotted around outside.

  Eyes turned to them as they entered. She asked the ham-faced barman to point her in the direction of Jeremiah Tung. The barman shook his head. As Emmaline tried to figure out if it was an outright refusal to help or that Jeremiah Tung wasn’t in the building, Oily tapped her shoulder and directed her to a heavy-set man in a denim jacket with the initials JT stitched onto the back.

  She and her undersized and slightly intimidated posse approached.

  ‘Jeremiah Tung?’

  The man in the denim jacket turned, eyebrow raised. His age was hard to determine, his face puffy with fat, smoothing any worry lines that might reveal his years, but she felt it was safe to say somewhere between thirty and forty.

  ‘I need to ask you about some gold.’

  The eyebrow remained up. ‘I think you’re mistaking me with Fort Knox,’ he replied, a hint of Kiwi to the accent.

  ‘I don’t care if you bought it or what you did with it. You see something going at a good price why would I stop you? That’s for the local cops,’ said Emmaline, looking at Cooper who was a few steps behind her.

  Jeremiah Tung didn’t answer. But he didn’t turn away either. She showed him Ian’s photo.

  ‘I just want to know how much he sold.’

  Jeremiah Tung’s mouth twisted in thought, nostrils flaring. ‘I’ll speak with you. Alone.’

  Emmaline nodded for Oily and Cooper to stay put and followed Tung to a back corner, home to the eye-watering reek of the nearby toilets. Maybe this was the corner he always used to conduct deals, the stench an incentive to hasten business along.

  ‘This gold. What’s it to you?’ he asked.

  ‘The guy flogging it might have kidnapped a mother and son. As I said, I don’t care about the deal, only how much he has.’

  ‘And the local blue?’

  ‘If they haven’t made a move yet then you must be too small-fry for them.’

  Jeremiah looked momentarily offended by this. Then he shot her a beaming smile. ‘I bought the guts of an ounce. He wanted fifteen hundred. I gave him nine.’

  Nine hundred. Enough for a week, maybe ten days at a stretch. There was a chance that Ian had then moved on to other dealers, but she guessed he wouldn’t want to hang around long. Especially with no guarantee that the next dealer wouldn’t just get a friendly call from Jeremiah and be ready to mug him of the rest of it.

  She was about to leave when Jeremiah called her back.

  ‘He asked about buying a second-hand motor too. I directed him to my brother. On Trieste.’

  Emmaline’s rapid-fire tour of Alice Springs’ lesser lights continued. Jeremiah Tung’s brother – also heavy-set and wearing an excess of denim – confirmed that a man fitting Ian Kinch’s description had bought a motor. An old Holden Commodore with two hundred thousand on the clock and no air con. For five hundred. Meaning he had four hundred left. Enough for a week, if he was sleeping in the car, which would be uncomfortable despite the Commodore’s size. It had been purchased under a fake name – Ted Grant – but though he could hide his name, Ian couldn’t hide his face. The licence plate number was immediately passed on to Cooper to run an ANPR check, though out here they would be lucky to get a positive.

  Emmaline asked one final question. ‘You see anyone with him?’

  Jeremiah Tung’s brother shook his head. ‘Not that I saw.’

  122 Naiyana

  It was a rocky ride. Pretty soon she regretted complaining about the broken road out of Kallayee and the compacted dirt of Keenan’s Run. They were like freshly laid tarmac compared to this, the ute being thrown up in the air before digging into the dirt and sand, almost burying the nose.

  The rollercoaster nature of it also made it hard to see anything out of the window, the landscape rocking up and down like she was on a small boat on a choppy sea.

  ‘Slow down,’ she cried out as the seat belt bit into her shoulder.

  ‘You want to find them, don’t you?’

  ‘I have to be able to see to find them,’ she retorted, as the ute ploughed through a lonely mulga, shattering it into pieces.

  ‘I want to find them too. I don’t want to go back to prison. And lose you.’

  She glanced over at him. His teeth were gritted, fighting the wheel. She wondered if he was fighting his emotions too. For the first time she wondered if the best decision was to let Lorcan and Dylan go. That way they would be safe. If Ian found them she couldn’t be sure what he’d do. She felt another surge of regret. That she ever became involved with him. The brief infatuation had passed, a puddle dried up in the sun. She had tried to convince herself that they had the same desires but they did not. He could kill in cold blood. She could not.

  She glanced at the rifle. It lay wedged between his seat and the central panel. She decided that if they found Lorcan and her son she would grab it. She would retain ultimate control. And if either Ian or Lorcan threatened her child she would use it.

  Indeed the more she thought about it the more she edged towards grabbing it now. Both of Ian’s hands were on the wheel, he was vulnerable. She resisted. For now.

  She held onto the dashboard as the powerful ute fought through another dredge of sand, the engine revving briefly before being muted as the sand absorbed the noise.

  An idea arose in her mind. A meeting in public. ‘We could wait for them in Hurton.’

  Ian shook his head. ‘Too risky. We can’t cover all the angles. One cry for help and we’d be surrounded. We don’t need any outside interference. We don’t need witnesses.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, hands inching towards the rifle.

  ‘We don’t need anyone outside the four of us knowing,’ he said, taking his eyes off the road for an instant. ‘I’ve got a record. I’d be the main suspect.’

  ‘You did kill Mike.’

  ‘But not Stevie. That was your husband.’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘Why are you sticking up for him?’

  It was a good question. One she couldn’t answer. Maybe she just wanted it to be clear in Ian’s head. That he had killed someone.

  ‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ she shouted, thinking how ironic it would be if they ‘drove off a cliff’ like Mike and Stevie.

  ‘Mike had it coming to him anyway,’ said Ian. ‘They both did. They knew what they were getting into. I told them that it wouldn’t be easy but Mike was always a pain in
the arse, unwilling to bend, that constant clack, clack of his fucking gum. He didn’t understand that these things require flexibility.’ He paused. ‘Of course, there are limits. Sometimes resoluteness is required.’

  Naiyana stared at him. She understood what he was getting at. One of those times of resoluteness was coming up. If they found Lorcan and Dylan, Ian would decide if there was to be another body. Or two. Or three. She was determined to make that her decision.

  123 Lorcan

  It hadn’t taken long for him to grow impatient with Dylan’s own impatience. Every two minutes he wanted a break or asked where his mum was or drifted off in a direction that wasn’t conducive to reaching Hurton. And then Perth he had decided. Not Adelaide. Despite the menace of Nikos Iannis.

  He had also ruled out going to a police station. There was no station in Hurton for starters and the police would only ask questions. And he wasn’t sure if he had answers. Or if he would have answers to anything ever again given how clouded his brain was. There was only one certainty. That he had killed someone and that he would be killed if he stayed in Kallayee. Every step further from town helped confirm it a little more.

  There was a second reason for not going to the police. They would attempt to contact Nee. Making it his word against the other two. His fingerprints were on the gold. And on the rifle in his hand. Stevie’s murder weapon. He should dump it, but he couldn’t let it go. It was his only protection.

  Naiyana held the upper hand. She might have been an adulterer but that was not a crime. In a criminal sense she was merely a bystander, a witness, present when Ian had shot Mike. She could claim that she was forced to help him dispose of the bodies, a woman in love with a powerful criminal, under his spell, in fear of her life. Pure bullshit. But bullshit that could fly with a jury. So, he would go to jail. And she would get custody of Dylan.

  So it was back to Perth and wait. If she did come for Dylan, then he would be surrounded by his family. He would go for her as hard as she went for him.

  But given the current rate of progress, he and Dylan would be camped out here overnight amongst the dirt and the dingoes. He could try and sell it as a further adventure like before but Dylan was exhausted and emotional. His new complaint was that he wanted to go back and get his trucks. The only mine still operating in town. The complaints quickly turned to tears and he grew concerned that the crying might draw unwanted attention. From people or animals. Worse yet, the wailing drowned out the possibility of hearing anyone approach.

  As they made it over the sand dune, his feet going ankle deep in the boiling hot sand and scorching whatever hair remained on his ankles, he helped his son down the other side, acting as Dylan’s eyes and ears now that his body was locked in tantrum.

  At the bottom he paused. As they got closer to Hurton his chance of picking up a signal increased. It was a faint hope, but phone signals were like magic sometimes. Maybe the earth would give him a helping hand. Maybe he was standing on a bed of iron ore that would boost the signal, if that was even a thing. He checked his pockets. And again. The phone was gone. He tried to recall when he had it last but…

  Through the air came the sound of an engine. Faint, possibly distant, direction unknown. It seemed to fade and he wondered if he was imagining it. He looked ahead. They were over the massive dune and if it wasn’t for the trees and scrub Hurton would have been visible in the distance. They were less than halfway there but reaching it by nightfall wasn’t impossible. If they increased the pace.

  The sound of the engine suddenly returned, roaring, drowning out everything else. He looked back as the white Toyota bounded over the crest, rearing into the air like a beast on the attack, its front wheels in the air, exposing the sand-clogged mechanics underneath.

  It was coming straight for them.

  124 Emmaline

  With the licence number and description of the 1990 Commodore out across all states along with Ian Kinch’s photo and alias, Emmaline and her team tried to narrow down his ultimate location.

  Oily had put forward the option of a city, north to Darwin, east to Brisbane, or the long haul south to Sydney; but with their names and descriptions now on the daily news cycle it was a risk. The openness of the country was considered more likely, but didn’t narrow down the options for investigation.

  A break came. From a gas station north of Alice, about an hour up the Stuart Highway. The owner reported serving someone who looked a lot like Ian Kinch. Over a week ago.

  Emmaline, Oily and Cooper made it out there in half an hour. It was a station that looked as if it was barely holding together, never mind barely scraping by. It consisted of two pumps that looked like relics from an old movie, a concourse where the white lines had been slowly scoured away by the sandpaper wind, and a main building that looked serviceable if unlovable.

  The owner waved them inside, the air con whirring and the fridges fully stocked with everything a traveller would need.

  The large man stuck out his equally large hand, his face open and friendly; a wide, beaming smile peeking from behind his dark lips. It was a smile that reminded Emmaline of her father, engaging and loving. She warmed to him immediately.

  ‘Mr Atijabawal?’ asked Emmaline.

  ‘Call me Orad,’ he said, as they convened at the counter. ‘You want anything to drink? Coke? Orange? Grog?’

  Given her dry throat, it was a tempting offer, but she put her hand up to decline. The others did the same.

  ‘You said you thought Mr Kinch was here.’

  ‘Or a boy that looked a lot like him anyway,’ said Orad, in good cheer.

  ‘More than a week ago,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Second of January.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  Orad pointed to the small monitor behind the counter. ‘CCTV. Just got it in. Lot of petrol thefts around here. People coming into the shop and distracting me while another yahoo fills up their ute and leaves. Then they chuck a U-ey up the road, come back and collect their partner. The police were doing nothing about it, so I did.’

  Emmaline nodded. ‘Has it helped?’

  ‘Only been one try in the last week.’

  ‘Ian Kinch?’ said Oily, with a questioning glance.

  Orad shook his head. ‘Nah, mate, he paid. Another guy, sent his girl in but she clocked the CCTV, turned on her heels and left.’

  He loaded up the footage. 2 January. A blurry image resembling Ian Kinch could be seen on the monitor filling a boxy Commodore at the pumps.

  ‘Do you see anyone in the car?’ asked Emmaline, the image dark on the screen.

  ‘No,’ said Cooper and Oily.

  ‘That’s the best shot I have,’ said Orad. ‘If it helps I didn’t see anyone in the car. But they could have been lying down in the back seat.’

  Because they were injured, thought Emmaline. Or dead.

  After filling the car, CCTV captured him entering the store and approaching the counter. Even in black and white the dark stain on his shirt was visible.

  ‘Was there blood on his shirt?’

  Orad looked at the screen and nodded. ‘A bit.’

  ‘You didn’t ask him about it?’

  ‘Years of experience have told me that it’s best not to. Could have hit a roo, a camel, anything.’

  The self-preservation of the outback store owner, thought Emmaline.

  ‘Did you see which way they went after?’

  ‘Not from here,’ said Orad, shaking his head. ‘Can’t see much out of these,’ he said, pointing to the dusty windows. It was like peering through a sepia-tinted lens.

  Without confirmation of the ute’s onward direction she had to speculate on the options. Ian might have been headed north to Darwin but just up the road was a turnoff for Route 12 and then the 76 heading east, thought Emmaline as she watched Ian Kinch paying at the till. And grabbing something from beside it. Emmaline looked to her left. It was a display of insect repellent.

  ‘Did he buy one of these?’

  Orad loo
ked at the small yellow and green cans, face twisted in thought. ‘Yeah, he asked if it was good against mozzies. I told him it was so he bought five or six. Stuffed them in his pockets.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Emmaline. ‘You’ve been a great help, Orad.’

  She bounded out of the petrol station. She now had an idea of where Ian Kinch was headed. And what had happened to Naiyana and Dylan Maguire.

  * * *

  They were back in the car before she revealed the importance of the repellent. She had Cooper bring up a map of the area on a tablet.

  ‘We’re here,’ she said, pointing at the dot on the map. It was surrounded by a blanket of grey, one lonely line of yellow trickling up the middle. ‘Up ahead are turnoffs that head towards Queensland. Now we know both Naiyana and Dylan Maguire were born and bred in Perth and what do we not get much of in Perth?’

  There was a moment’s pause.

  ‘Mosquitoes,’ said Oily.

  Emmaline nodded. ‘Ian Kinch though is from Cairns and so knows how bad they can get. Maybe he gets bitten himself, maybe he is taking them as a precaution for Naiyana and Dylan. What it means is that’s where they were headed.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘It’s what he knows. It’s where he has family.’

  ‘It’s also where he would expect we’d look,’ said Oily.

  ‘So, let’s look.’

  ‘We did,’ said Cooper. ‘We’ve tried his family and friends. They aren’t talking.’

  ‘Maybe they don’t know,’ said Emmaline. ‘He’s become proficient at staying under the radar.’

  125 Emmaline

  The Cross-border Justice Scheme provision had run out. It had before Emmaline had reached Alice Springs but she had pushed her luck in the hope that the trail ended there. But it hadn’t. This meant getting clearance to pursue from the Queensland authorities and HQ.

  She waited at Alice Springs airport for the go-ahead to fly to Cairns. Given that she suspected he was headed back home, she had suggested keeping tabs on social media. In case something was mentioned by a friend in passing. A slip-up. But the Cairns police were on it already. Thoroughly scoured. No leads forthcoming.