Vanished

by James Delargy

  A call arrived. Zhao. It wasn’t the go-ahead that she was eager for. It was a different update. Nikos Iannis had been arrested getting on a plane to Greece that afternoon. Using a fake passport.

  She smiled as she hung up the call. So, Nikos had made a desperate attempt to flee. Which suggested he was planning, or had planned, something. Something that had gone wrong. She would have to trust Zhao could get him to talk.

  Emmaline stared at the empty ticket desks. She turned to Oily. ‘Would Ian try to get out of the country?’

  ‘From Cairns?’

  ‘He could have arranged something. Given as we weren’t even looking for him until a few days ago.’

  Oily pursed his lips. ‘But Naiyana and Dylan Maguire’s photos were everywhere.’

  ‘Everywhere is a big place, Oily.’

  * * *

  An hour later they got the go-ahead. Two hours in the air and they were there. The temperature remained the same, but the humidity had cranked up to uncomfortable, clothes that stuck to flesh and refused to budge, growing ever and ever more like a second skin.

  Ian Kinch’s apartment had already been searched and surveillance confirmed no movement in or out. The stuffed-to-burst pigeonhole – post addressed to Ian King – suggested he hadn’t been by in the last few months. The local dives had been checked and rechecked but all had drawn a blank. Ian Kinch and whoever was with him had become ghosts.

  The local hospitals were questioned. A team in Queensland HQ had even taken to phoning all the local surgeries and health centres around the state to see if any had admitted or treated Naiyana Maguire, Dylan Maguire or someone fitting their descriptions.

  Local gold dealers the same. All enquiries met with the same silence. Leaving the possibility that Ian had run out of merch.

  * * *

  Tuesday flicked over to Wednesday. And Wednesday into Thursday.

  Horizons that had been narrowed to concentrate on Queensland were broadened again. Budgets stretched and pledges given that this was the last time.

  Calls were made to Darwin for the Top-Enders to make some enquiries. Brisbane and the Gold Coast too were put on alert. Even the Sydneysiders. The net was wide but with too many holes. A needle in a haystack.

  Emmaline’s frustrations grew. They had picked up the scent only to have the suspect shake them. The cranked humidity made her temper grow spectacularly short, snapping at the staff in the motel that somehow smelled worse than the caravan she had left behind.

  She snapped at officers who weren’t under her command. She missed being in command. She missed pursuing her own lines of enquiry and the freedom that working for the MCS back home provided. Out here she was a bystander watching on as Inspector Liang from Cairns QPS took over. She had no authority here. After driving the case all the way here that seemed wrong. She didn’t enjoy taking a back seat. The views were restricted, the chance to steer remote and the journey only made her frustrated and bored.

  With each tick of each minute her doubts solidified. She had made a mistake. Ian Kinch and the Maguires were elsewhere. She had jumped on the logic of Ian returning home as some sort of security blanket but there had been no inkling of his presence.

  He had managed to disappear off the grid once. But back then the full force of the law hadn’t been looking for him. Now he had managed to stage another disappearance like he was David fucking Blaine.

  It was 13 January now. Two weeks since Naiyana was last spotted alive. Two weeks since Dylan was last heard of. A month since they had entered Kallayee and now, even in this heat and oppressive humidity, the trail was quickly growing cold. Time was rapidly flowing against them and she was powerless.

  After another meeting and another lack of positive sightings, she called up Zhao in case Ian had doubled back and ended up in the West. It was another dead end. And Nikos wasn’t talking. Other than to say he had nothing to do with any killings.

  After that she contacted Rispoli. This brought another dagger of frustration. How she could have done with him out here to take her mind off things for a while. A distraction was what she needed. His voice. His lips. Again she felt a pang of affection for that sweaty, dank caravan. She didn’t say any of this to him. There was no point. They might meet again. Might even hook up again but right now all she could ask was for him to once again scour Kallayee for any clues. Check the tunnels again, check the house; look for a sign in the clouds, whispers in the air. She recognized what these were. Desperation measures to allow herself to exert some control.

  That afternoon brought another visit to Ian’s family, which she tagged along on. As another badge in a line. It was another attempt to cajole them into giving up anything they knew. Their pride regarding Ian was overtly apparent. Petty crime was the family business given the Kinch’s lists of misdemeanours but Ian had broken through as the first nationwide Kinch villain, others merely local celebrities. The neighbours were canvassed again and again claimed not to have heard of Ian King or Ian Kinch even though his photo had been plastered all over the news. The wall of silence was tall and strong.

  On leaving Emmaline pulled Inspector Liang aside. During the course of this blunt assault another angle of attack had occurred to her. They had tried relatives, neighbours and friends. But what about enemies? Surely not everyone was celebrating Ian’s newfound fame? Inspector Liang studied her closely, sniffing persistently, something he seemed to do when mulling something over. Despite Emmaline being a drop-in, he had never once discouraged her or suggested she leave this to the QPS, the brush-off she had experienced before in other cases. Even when she outranked whoever was locally in charge. Inspector Liang stopped sniffing. He held his nose. And nodded.

  HQ was quick to draw up a list of possibles and it didn’t take long for it to bear fruit. Toby ‘Tubs’ Wilkinson, a small-time local dealer, was happy to spill the beans in return for a petty theft charge being dropped.

  After insisting that Ian Kinch was both not in town and a worthless piece of shit like all the other Kinches, Tubs eventually informed them that Ian had a lock-up out in Manoora, a southern suburb.

  This was news to the team. A quick check revealed that the lock-up wasn’t rented under Ian’s name or any known alias and had been paid for in cash. The owner didn’t know what was kept in it and didn’t care as long as it wasn’t illegal or flammable. Emmaline watched his face change from blasé to vexed when the police were unable to refute either.

  Inspector Liang gave the command for the lock-up to be raided immediately by the Special Emergency Response Team. Emmaline and Oily rode with Liang in the backup truck. He didn’t want either of them caught up in a gunfight. That was something Emmaline could abide by. As long as she was there when they caught Ian. She wanted to experience the satisfaction and thrill of the end of the hunt.

  She waited in the third van back, tension mounting alongside the heat in the windowless vehicle. The SERT team readied themselves, weapons checked, masks adjusted, gloves pulled tight to fists. Breathing controlled. Waiting. After what seemed like an age the order was given. The three vans sped into the industrial park, down a double row of small garages and skidded to a halt outside one with a red door and ‘41’ graffitied on the front.

  The forward team stalked up to the shutters before assuming defensive positions. Two members of the second team sprinted up to the lock with a drill, spearing through it in seconds. They then retreated and the officers poised at either side raised the door with a horrific, grinding squeak.

  A call went up for those inside to come out with their hands up.

  Emmaline peered into the darkness, looking for movement, looking for the barrel of a rifle to appear. Maybe even Naiyana’s dead body sprawled on the floor.

  But there was nothing, no movement aside from the newly disturbed dust. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she could see that the garage was filled with scrap, old bikes and furniture, paint cans and general bric-a-brac. She watched as armed officers combed the inside but it was obvious no one was here.


  After merely twenty seconds the cry of ‘All clear’ erupted. Emmaline and Oily joined Inspector Liang in entering. Her first impression was that the garage definitely hadn’t been lived in, the air musty with inaction and lacking telltale remnants of scant meals or improvised sleeping arrangements. The floor and shelves were full of scrap she guessed was too busted for even Ian Kinch to fence. The only things of worth were stacked neatly in the corner. A pair of kayaks. Emmaline ran her hand across the fibreglass. A thin layer of dust but no scratches, suggesting they were prized possessions. Keeping them in the garage was probably more of a necessity than a desire, being too large to store in his small apartment. Behind the kayaks were a set of paddles and some rubber equipment she assumed was kayak related. This included a pair of helmets plastered with stickers. The same stickers covered the sides of the kayaks. For an adventure place in Cape Tribulation. A couple of hours’ drive up the coast. A place she had only seen on television. A rainforest that backed onto beaches overlooked by the wonderfully named Mount Sorrow. It seemed the appropriate place for desperate runaways to flee to.

  126 Emmaline

  Cape Tribulation was much like Emmaline had seen on television. Only prettier. And hotter. The blue of the sky interrupted only by the dark clouds of mosquitoes that seemed to bite her en masse. Now she understood why Ian Kinch had purchased the repellent. She would sell a kidney for some right now.

  On leaving the lock-up garage she had requisitioned a computer in District HQ and searched the adventure company stickered on the kayaks and helmets. Daintree Kayaks was based in Cape Tribulation and focused on sea kayaking around the coast, exploring the beaches, reefs and mangroves, offering ‘great times’ and ‘wild, but safe tours for even the most inexperienced adventurers’.

  Noticeably left out was the river itself. Even the bravest didn’t kayak Daintree River for fear of meeting the giant saltwater crocodiles, or ‘salties’ as they were known.

  What Daintree Kayaks did provide was training on proficiency badges. On a hunch, she checked them out.

  Ian was listed as having a Sea Rescue endorsement, a Coastal Skills award and had last year begun a Sea Instructor badge, which would allow him to train individuals and groups to kayak at sea in moderate conditions. This was the other side to Ian Kinch. Even murderers needed hobbies. It also showed that he was serious about the sport. Minus any other leads on his whereabouts, this was the place to try.

  Chaperoned by Cooper and Inspector Liang, who was taking great pleasure in conducting such a major operation, they first checked out her hunch that the pair would try and get out of Australia.

  The docks were checked. Any boat that was going to Port Moresby in Papua New Guinea or to the Torres Strait Islands and then on to PNG. Passenger logs of boats that had departed in the last week were reviewed. Nothing was found to indicate that Ian, Naiyana or Dylan had been on them.

  But that was only the official charters. They delved deeper. Skippers that needed no documents and asked no questions. Every one they quizzed returned the same answer. That they didn’t go as far as PNG and that hopping from Thursday Island on to PNG was illegal. Unless you were a Torres Strait Islander. The official party line. The line that kept them out of trouble. A line that was almost too well rehearsed.

  They had nearly run out of dock when Emmaline approached a guy who was polishing his boat, his hands a web of tendons as he scrubbed hard, the small vessel his livelihood, his prized possession.

  He trotted out the same line. Didn’t go there. Too far. Illegal.

  ‘Has anyone asked?’

  The guy stopped scrubbing and looked at her. ‘People ask.’

  ‘Any in the last few days?’

  The guy paused, adjusting his stance to stand straight. A wince of pain. Back trouble from long days hunched over. ‘Yeah. Someone asked. Friday, it was.’ Four days ago.

  ‘Did he look like this?’ asked Emmaline, showing him the picture of Ian Kinch on her phone.

  ‘Looks like the guy,’ he said, returning to scrubbing as he talked, not wanting to waste any time. ‘Fella was pretty nervous, looking around as if he expected to be jumped.’

  ‘Why did he try you?’

  The scrubber looked up. His hands continued to work as he nonchalantly shrugged. ‘Must have thought I looked friendly.’

  ‘But you weren’t.’

  ‘You couldn’t pay me to go that far.’

  ‘But he tried?’

  ‘Said he had big bickies to make it worthwhile.’

  ‘For one person?’

  The guy shrugged, again almost nonchalantly. ‘I guess so. Never mentioned anyone else and I never asked.’

  Emmaline wondered what that meant for Naiyana and Dylan. Had she succumbed to her injuries? Dylan too? His blood was at the scene of his father’s death after all.

  ‘Fella also said that he would work to pay some off.’

  ‘The travel?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Work for you?’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘And that was it?’

  The scrubber shrugged again. ‘Said he would be around for a few days if I changed my mind.’

  ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘Still here, ain’t I?’

  ‘Any idea where he might be staying?’

  The scrubber thought about it. ‘Fella didn’t say.’

  127 Emmaline

  So, Ian Kinch had offered to work in return for passage abroad. And the suggestion, as far as she could tell from the boat scrubber, was that he was travelling alone.

  The approach had been four days ago. Testing out the cost of transport. The offer to work some off meant he was running short of cash. Maybe he had looked for some short-term work to make the difference up. If so, his options were narrow.

  Cape Tribulation wasn’t really much of a town as such, named by Lieutenant James Cook when he ran the Endeavour onto the reef damaging the boat. It was a disparate series of eco lodges, tourist resorts, backpacker hostels and other accommodation tucked deeper into the rainforest. Supporting this were some cafes, restaurants and a couple of convenience stores. They scoured the local businesses for any trace of Ian Kinch, his name and photo presented to the staff.

  The Daintree store was the only hit, the teller, a bright-eyed guy with clumped brown dreadlocks, absolutely certain that he had served Ian Kinch.

  ‘When?’

  The guy shook his head as if this part was hazy. ‘I want to say three, no four, days ago.’

  Emmaline pressed on. ‘How certain are you that it was him?’

  ‘As certain as you are standing there.’

  ‘And how much weed do you smoke?’ asked Oily, who was checking the shelves as if Ian might be hiding amongst the tinned tomatoes.

  The teller looked almost offended. ‘None. You can call in your sniffer dogs if you want. I ain’t got anything to hide,’ he said, standing back and spreading his arms.

  Emmaline glared at Oily, who returned to snooping around the store. This was an interview not a shakedown.

  ‘So you’re certain?’

  ‘My head’s clear, Detective.’

  ‘Good. So you remember what he bought? Did he use card or cash?’

  The teller looked up, staring at the tin roof for guidance.

  ‘Some long-life,’ he said, pointing towards the cartons of milk without opening his eyes. ‘Cereal. Tim Tams. Beans. Bread. Bacon. Chocolate bars—’

  ‘Peanut butter KitKats?’

  The eyes flashed open, as if in wonder at her guess.

  ‘Nah,’ he shook his head, ‘we don’t sell them. Cherry Ripes. Mars bars.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  The head shook again. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘You don’t want to search me for dope?’

  ‘Not today,’ said Emmaline. ‘Bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘Learn anything?’ asked Oily, as they stepped outside. After the pleasant chill of the store, her skin
started to prickle.

  ‘The beans and bacon did.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They need cooking.’

  ‘Which tells us?’

  ‘Where they’re staying there is a cooker. They can’t afford catered accommodation so they must be in one of the self-catered lodges.’

  ‘Or sleeping in the Holden,’ said Oily, looking at Emmaline and shuddering. In this humidity, that would have been a nightmare.

  128 Emmaline

  With Ian sighted in the area the next stop were places of possible work. Knowing his area of expertise, Inspector Liang had swarmed the outdoor pursuits and adventure centres like the mosquitoes that seemed to follow Emmaline around. She reckoned she had swallowed about a million of them already. At a conservative estimate.

  The business advertised on Ian’s kayaks, Daintree Kayaks, wasn’t listed, seemingly having gone out of business last year. Riley’s Canoes hadn’t seen or heard of Ian Kinch, but as Riley, married to the dreadlocked store assistant given the beach wedding photo on the wall, noted, she was new to the business this summer, as told by the brand new sign and fresh equipment that hung off her shelves.

  Odion at Daintree Adventures had a group waiting to go out and was keen to get away as the daylight would be fading in a few hours. He had heard of Ian Kinch but hadn’t seen him since last year.

  Johnny, the owner of the Tribulation Experience also knew of Ian Kinch. But again, hadn’t seen him recently. Wondered how he was. Emmaline thought that odd as a visit from the police should have warned him how Ian was. Not good news. His vibe was one of a good-natured and sun-beaten old surfer in his late forties who seemed to have no care in the world. He even offered to take her and Oily out on the waves to look for Ian, but as bad as things might have been for him, Naiyana and Dylan, Emmaline doubted they were living on a kayak.