Wyatt - 06 - The Fallout

by Garry Disher

  Nope.

  Gosse snarled, He was observed handing you something, Mr Heneker.

  Heneker shifted in his chair. He reached inside his coat pocket. All right, all right, he gave me this.

  A necklace spilled onto the table. For a moment they were silent in the face of the soft glow, the winking hard stones.

  Liz said, Youre not a trustworthy man, are you, Mr Heneker? Do your superiors know that?

  I get results.

  What were you going to do with the necklace? Sell it?

  Montgomery looked pained. Mr Heneker is not suspected or accused of anything, Sergeant Redding. What we have to focus on is this man Wyatt.

  Yes, sir.

  Gosse leaned forward. Did he have the other pieces with him?

  Heneker shook his head. Didnt see them.

  Did he tell you where you could find them?

  Nope.

  You didnt warn him?

  Inspector Gosse, Montgomery began. Mr Heneker is

  Gosse ignored him. You didnt arrange to meet this man later?

  Heneker was outraged. What do you take me for? You called and said he might contact me. He did, so I let you know. Ive done my bit. If a dozen of you are not capable of catching one man, then thats your problem, not mine.

  All right, all right, Mr Heneker. Im sure Inspector Gosse doesnt mean any offence. Is there anything else you can tell us about the man? He didnt say where he was staying? Didnt give you a number to call? Didnt mention any names. Nothing like that?

  Not a thing.

  Then you may go.

  What about the necklace?

  Well need to hang on to it for the time being, Gosse said, pending further investigation.

  Heneker shuffled out, scowling, putting plenty of outrage into the tilt of his head. Heneker smelt wrong. Liz didnt know how, but knew that hed held something back, some fiddle.

  She was lost to these thoughts and didnt register the hard stares of Gosse and even Montgomery until it was too late. Gosse said, Nice tan, Liz.

  Liz stiffened. Here it comes, she thought.

  So, you decided to go to Vanuatu and arrest Inspector Springett.

  Yes.

  Yes, sir, Gosse said.

  Liz shrugged.

  An unauthorised trip to a country over which the Victoria Police have no jurisdiction. You came back with Springett and this man Wyatt, only Springett drowned in yesterdays storm and Wyatt gave you the slip, the Asahi jewels in his pocket. Correct, so far?

  Sir, you have to take into account

  I hope to God the press dont get wind of this, Sergeant, said Montgomery. Theyd have a field day.

  Gosse said irritably, Sergeant, you can understand that we have a problem with your story. The jewels. Your relationship with this Wyatt character, Springetts convenient death.

  Liz struggled against the fog in her head. There was a blowfly buzzing against the glass above the chair in which Heneker had been sitting. Why had Wyatt thought it necessary to drug her? Why had he run? Such contempt and calculation after their seven days together. She felt incomplete and grubby, as if shed had no say at all in their . . . encounter. As if hed had all the power. And hed had the Asahi jewels all along.

  She felt muddled and dreamy. Montgomery and Gosse talked around her, talked about charging her, pending suspension and an inquiry. Liz let them talk.

  Shed been seven days on the open sea in the stolen yacht before she saw the change in Wyatt. It had happened as they neared the eastern seaboard. Shed been expecting it. He was a hold-up man, after all. Their days together in the briny air and mild sun were simply a respite from the running that was mostly his life and the hunting that was mostly hers. Then the first land birds and rusty coastal freighters had appeared to remind her that she had a job to do, just as she supposed Wyatt was reminded that he had a fortune in jewels in his possession and a cop for a travelling companion.

  God, was it only yesterday afternoon? She remembered that he had checked the compass bearing, referred to the chart, made a slight adjustment to the wheel. Rough seas had been forecast, and for Liz that was the precipitating factor.

  Shed stood at his elbow, staring down at the chart, then used her finger to trace the coastline of Victoria from Wilsons Promontory to the rip at Port Philip Heads, and up into the bay toward Port Melbourne. How big a storm? shed asked.

  I wouldnt want to be tossing about in it.

  So what do we do?

  Put in somewhere until it blows over.

  Where?

  She loved his hands. Wyatt had pointed with a finger as slender and worn as a twig weathered by the wind and the rain. Westernport marina at Hastings. We can be moored there by about four oclock in the morning.

  Liz remembered saying, to gauge his reaction: I could call CIB detectives to come down and collect us in Hastings. No need to wait for the storm to blow itself out.

  Wyatt had said nothing, his face settling into an impassivity that he wore like a familiar shoe. He could not be read, and that annoyed her.

  Wyatt? We have to talk about this.

  But he stared out at the sea, sombre and cryptic, a hard alertness under it. Impatiently she said, Do you want to spend the rest of your life running and hiding? Ill bring you in. I doubt if youll do any gaol time.

  She squirmed now, remembering this. He must have thought her either naive or devious. But shed gone on, pestering, cajoling. Your testimony will help me clear everything up.

  I had nothing to do with Springett or his operation.

  Not directly, maybe, but

  So I cant help you.

  You mean you wont help me.

  I wont help you put me in gaol, certainly.

  A wave had heaved out of nowhere and they breasted it, tilted, hung there in space, and returned with a crash to the horizontal. Liz had felt her teeth snap together. Wyatt fought the wheel until they were pitching and butting through the surface chop again. They could see coastal towns in the muted light of the approaching dusk. Darkness fell rapidly after that; the sea grew rougher; their running lights burned in the seaspray.

  Then the yacht yawed violently. When it was stable, Wyatt said, Youd better release Springett or the cuffs will break his wrist. Also he could be useful to us up here.

  She had done that, and Springett had stepped on deck and straight into a foaming wave that washed over the bow and took him with it. Shed been sad and appalled. Wyatt had registered no emotion at all and, once hed found calmer waters in Westernport Bay, had gone below and laced her coffee with Mogadon.

  Did you hear me, Sergeant Redding? Your suspension will take effect from Friday. In the meantime I want you available for further questioning.

  Liz blinked out of her daze. Yes, sir.

  They all left the room. Outside, in the corridor, cleaners had been splashing disinfectant around. Shoe-black streaked the floor and the bottoms of the walls. Lizs head felt heavy, heavy. Before she could stop herself, she veered toward Montgomery. Their shoulders touched. They sprang apart.

  Go home and rest, Sergeant.

  Liz made him stop and face her, in this building that was never still, phones ringing, doors opening and closing. But I stopped Springett, sir. I arrested him. A bent policeman, a senior officer. Surely that counts for something?

  Gosse was hovering behind them. He shoved forward. Sergeant, if we had the jewels, if we had Wyatt, we might be inclined to go along with your story.

  He shrugged. As things stand now, youre history.

  * * * *

  Seven

  Steers jaw dropped. Pentridge?

  Yep.

  How come?

  Because youre a piece of shit, the Correctional Services officer said.

  They were waiting at a reception window in the new, privately operated remand centre in Sunshine. Steer had been remanded on a charge of aggravated burglary, bail denied, and as he understood it you got sent to one of the remand centres pending trial, so why was the system stuffing him around today, turning him a
way, sending him to Pentridge prison?

  Youre joking, right?

  Someone came through from an inner room with a form on a clipboard. The Correctional Services officer signed it and turned to escort Steer out to the police van again. Steer said, I mean, how come? Tell me youre joking. Im on remand, mate. I havent been to trial yet.

  The officer said wearily, Can it, okay? The paperwork says Anthony Steer, remanded to Pentridge.

  But its a fucking gaol, mate. Its full of blokes thatd slit your throat because they only got one egg for breakfast.

  Youve done time before. You can handle it.

  Steer could handle it. The problem was, Denise and Chaffey were lining someone up to spring him out of remand. Escaping from Pentridge was a whole other ballgame. Hed have to get Chaffey to do some fancy footwork with Correctional Services, slip someone a few bucks to alter the paperwork.

  They bundled Steer into the rear of the police van. Steel floor, walls and ceiling, tiny reinforced glass window, plenty of steel separating him from the driver and the drivers offsider. He was the only prisoner. He heard the bolt slide home on the door of the van. He heard the Correctional Services officer tell the driver, Remands full. Theyve got room for him in Pentridge.

  Doesnt make sense, the driver said. Youve got remanded guys in Pentridge and sentenced guys in remand. Doesnt make sense.

  Tell it to the Minister.

  The van braked and spurted fitfully through the western suburbs of the city. At Pentridge, in Coburg, the world seemed to darken, all light and goodness swallowed up by the bluestone walls. They were waved through. Steers escort parked the van against an inside wall and disappeared for an hour. Steer grew jumpy in his metal tomb. When the doors of the van were finally opened, he said, Morning tea, right? Your boss know you boys bludge on the job?

  Shut it, arsehole.

  They took Steer in to be admitted. A prison officer said, Name?

  The driver of the van checked a sheaf of papers in his fist. Steer, first name Anthony.

  Anthony, wacky do, the prison officer said, ticking something. Right, hes ours now.

  Steer watched his escort walk back across the industrial-grade carpet and out through the door to the van. He swung back to the prison officer. Look, I shouldnt be here. I should be in remand.

  Every remand centre in the city is full, pal. Thats why youre being remanded here, in D Division.

  Thats better than H Division, right?

  Steer had spent gaol time in Long Bay, Beechworth, Ararat and Yatala. But he knew all about Pentridge. H Division was high security. It held killers, gunmen, escapers, men with a history of violence toward the prison guards, let alone other prisoners. Some inmates were handcuffed whenever they left their cells, even to have a shower. Others were kept in separation for months at a time, with only two hours out of the cell each day.

  Marginally, the prison officer said. He handed Steer a stack of clothing. Put these on.

  The shirt was thin from repeated washing, the collar frayed. The trousers stopped at his ankles. Both knees had worn through at some stage and been mended with patches on the inside and a Crosshatch of thick black cotton thread. The windcheater, once chocolate brown, barely came to his waist. The shoes needed reheeling.

  Wearing these clothes would be like wearing the skin of every pathetic junkie and rock spider who had ever been incarcerated in Pentridge. No fucking way, mate.

  The officer stiffened. Come again?

  I mean, give us a set of new gear and Ill make it worth your while.

  Yeah? How much?

  Fifty.

  Make it seventy-five and youve got yourself a deal.

  My lawyer will slip it to you tomorrow.

  If he doesnt, the officer said, then you go back to wearing cast-offs.

  For seventy-five, Steer countered, you can chuck in a decent set of bedding.

  Finally an officer escorted Steer out of the administration wing. One inmate whistled on the long walk to his cell. Others stopped to stare as he passed among them. They approached a door. An inmate who had been leaning on the wall, smoking, sprang forward and opened the door, making a big show of it, doing Steer a favour.

  Steer knew what it was about. It was a test. If he said thanks, hed be marked out as a soft target. Steer wasnt soft. He was hard and lithe and very fit. Tall, narrow through the hips but broad at the shoulder, with a flat stomach and big hands, the knuckles like pebbles under the skin. There was scar tissue on his face but it was a grinning, clever, likeable face with bright killers eyes and bad teeth. He stared at the man, cold and unnerving, and saw him drop his gaze and step back.

  The guard watched it happen. Piss off, Bence.

  Right you are, Mr Loney, sir.

  They were in a corridor of simple cells and Steer could see two bunks in each. The cells were poorly lit, about three cubic metres, the walls exuding bitter cold and dampness. Two men were hovering at the open door to the cell at the end of the corridor. New bloke, they said.

  Steer gave them the stare. Like Bence, they fell back. So far so good.

  The guard said, This is your cell, Steer. The charmer on the bottom bunk there is Monger. Youll show Steer here the ropes, wont you, Monger?

  Sure, Mr Loney, Monger said.

  The guard left them to it. One of the men at the door wandered away. The other, leaning against the jamb, shook a cigarette from the packet in his top pocket. Welcome to D Division, matey. Smoke?

  Steer said, No thanks. It might have been a genuine offer, it might also have been a test.

  Suit yourself, the man said, wandering off.

  Steer turned to Monger. Monger was young, nervy looking. Mate, youre in my bed.

  Monger sat up in the bunk. What?

  Yours is the top bunk.

  Monger opened and closed his mouth. Finally he nodded, stripped the bedding from his bunk, and climbed onto the top bunk, far from the floor and the crapper, up where the farts gatheredall of which told Steer that this was Mongers first time.

  Steer made himself comfortable. At lunchtime he saw Monger bend even further. He was at a scuffed table behind Monger, and watched as Bence and another man sat on either side of Monger and went to work.

  First, Bence leaned forward. He fingered Mongers watch strap, Nice.

  Steer saw Monger jerk back his arm.

  Steady on, Bence said. Just looking.

  Monger nodded warily.

  Wouldnt have any smokes, would you? the other man said. Im fresh out.

  Monger had been given his prison issue. He got them out but before he could offer one Bence grabbed the entire packet and slipped it into his top pocket.

  Hey, come on, Monger said.

  Mate, you owe me.

  Owe you? How come?

  The other man was looking at Mongers food. He reached across, helped himself to the pudding and started to spoon it into his mouth. Hungry, he explained, catching Mongers eye.

  Monger said, I suppose I owe you as well?

  Both men ignored him. Bence peered around him to the other man. What duties they got you on this arvo?

  Cleaning the shithouse.

  Get Monger to help you.

  Monger protested. I asked for the library.

  I bet you did, but thats too good for a little shit like you. Id hate for you to get bored in here. I mean, Bence went on, do a bloke a favour, you expect one in return, right?

  Absolutely, the other man said.

  Much later, back in the cell, Steer found Monger curled on the floor at the foot of the bunks, tired and dirty, his face streaked and miserable. Come on, dont chuck in the towel.

  Monger let himself be helped to his feet. Steer brushed him down, told him to change his clothes. Mate, he said, I could see it happening a mile off. I watched it all.

  So why didnt you give us a fucking hand? Monger said, fighting down his self-disgust, his jitters.

  A few basic survival rules, Steer said, all right? One, from now on, especially out in the yard, your
e a marked man. The heavy boys like Bence will give you a hard time, stand in your way, shove you around, stuff like that. If you try and avoid them, go around them, you might as well curl up in a ball and die. Youd be theirs for good. Bum buddy in the shower. What you have to do is take them on. If you make eye contact, dont back down. Give them the old thousand yard stare. Theyll beat the crap out of you, but at least youll earn yourself some respect.